Such a disagreement could ruin even the fastest of friendships. You spare a thought for how isolated Bisclavret’s widow must be, bereft of friends and associates. Your obligation to her ended on the day of her marriage, but for the sake of the care you once showed her, you might have thought of her before now. It was cruel of you to forget her in your grief, but it is also too late to repair that damage.
Life resumes, a little muted, still ringing with the echoes of the war and of the wolf’s violence. You allow the beast to guard you in your sleep as you ever have, although you know that if he attacks you while you slumber, you stand no hope of surviving it. He’s had ample opportunity to maul you, these past months, and never taken it. Every morning you wake unharmed and every morning you know it’s not because the wolf is incapable, nor is he afraid.
Fealty.The beast is sworn to you.
His loyalty is proven, so you feel no compunction about allowing him to lope alongside you when you ride out for the first full hunt after the war’s end. His long limbs let him keep pace easily, and your horses have become accustomed to his presence, though a few of your lords have mounts less habituated to the creature, and they’re skittish and afraid.
It’s perhaps the biggest hunt the wolf has accompanied you on: lords and knights in their finery, looking to impress; huntsmen turned out in great numbers; eager hounds racing ahead; the din of horns and beaters and hooves . . . You’re briefly worried it will all be too much for a beast who relies so heavily on his own senses, but he seems unconcerned by the fuss.
It wasn’t planned, led as you are by the tracks of the doe you’re pursuing, but the route takes you back through the clearing where you found him. It’s changed little in the past year, and you wonder if he recognises it. Certainly, there’s a new wariness in his posture, ears alert for danger. Something has set him on edge – a sound? A scent? Some other beast that wanders these woods?
There’s the faintest rustle of leaves, and the wolf’s head snaps up.
‘Be calm,’ you mutter to him. You’ve no wish to spark panic if the creature goes hurtling after a squirrel, and if there’s game here then you wouldn’t rob your people of their sport by allowing the wolf to make the kill. But he’s growling, low in his throat, in a way that has you reaching for your sword.
The figure who emerges from among the trees is neither an animal nor an enemy, however. It’s a woman.
She’s dressed in finery – an intricately embroidered silk bliaut with trailing, impractical sleeves, her hair braided beneath a veil of thin silk, a circlet holding it in place. Strange garb for a walk alone in a forest, and a few moments pass before you recognise her.
Bisclavret’s wife. Your ward.
You haven’t seen her since she remarried. She looks well with it, which eases the faint sense of guilt you feel for neglecting her; she has not been without comforts. But your thoughts are cut off abruptly, because the wolf snarls, vicious and slavering. You throw your leg over your horse and drop to the ground, burying your hands in his ruff to hold him, restrain him. If he chooses to break free, you’ve no hope of holding him like this, but he knows to obey you, to stay where you wish him . . .
At the sight of him, she blanches. She has in her hands some small item or gift, and it’s clear she sought to cross the path of the hunt deliberately – she should know better than that, she should know the danger she was placing herself in – but she did not, it seems, anticipate the presence of the wolf. Perhaps she thought you would have had the creature removed or locked away after he attacked her husband.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ you call to her, without stepping forward or letting go of the beast. ‘He means you no harm.’
It’s hard even for you to believe that, when you can feel the wolf testing your grip, tugging gently as though to let you know it’s only out of respect for you that he hasn’t already shot forward towards her.
‘Sire,’ she says, ‘I bring—’ But she breaks off, staring at the wolf, and her next words come out in a flurry of panic and fear: ‘I cannot, I cannot, please bid him away from you, I must—’
‘Good woman,’ you say, as gently as you can, ‘calm yourself!’
‘That beast killed my husband!’
A growl – a roar – rips from the throat of the wolf at your side, and before you have a chance to tighten your grip, he’s torn free, paws crashing against the ground with every bounding leap across the clearing. You hear weapons being unsheathed, but nobody dashes forward to intercept him. Like you, they’rerooted to the ground, unable to do anything but wait. Watch. Witness the moment the animal collides with the lady, slamming her into the uneven ground, and closes his teeth around her face.
She screams – tries to scream – it’s a gurgle, really, a sound drowned in blood, her breath stolen by pain.
Perhaps he would have killed her. For a moment you think he already has, the scene a blur as your knights leap from their horses and drag the wolf back from her with ropes. You were wrong, you think; this is Bisclavret’s killer after all. The cousin’s small injuries were nothing compared to the mess of her face, the gaping wound where her nose should be, the sodden gasps of her attempts to breathe.
The wolf heaves and wrestles against the strength of the knights, but they’ve spent a year training themselves to sharpness and he’s spent that time as your pet. They bind and restrain him, and one even succeeds in muzzling those fearsome teeth.
Her screams subside into sobs. You remember yourself enough to walk over to her, kneel by her fallen body, and press a clean cloth to her face to try to stem the bleeding. Somebody else calls for servants to fetch water, a physician, bandages. What a shame, you find yourself thinking, that the lovely embroidery on her clothes is ruined, for it must have taken months – and then you catch yourself in the thought. How can you think of the needlework at a time like this, when her nose is ruined – gone – and your wolf is the culprit?
A strange, unreal calm fogs your thoughts. How could you have been so wrong about him?
‘This wolf,’ says your knight in green to the lady, ‘did not kill your husband.’
You look at him. His tone is certain, rock-solid, and there’s no animosity in his expression, but now is hardly the timefor the distribution of blame – it will not comfort the mauled woman in her agony. ‘Leave it,’ you say, a warning in your voice. ‘There’ll be time for that later.’
‘This wolf did not kill her husband because her husband is not dead,’ he snaps.
You stare at him.
For a moment, you think he means the cousin. You know well that he is not dead – he left your feast with a bandaged hand and his head held high, hale and haughty. But your knight stares straight back, a defiant certainty shining in his eyes, and you realise he is not talking about the cousin after all.
Not dead.
