Chapter 40 You
You
It’s no surprise that your servants are nervous around the wolf after that; what’s more remarkable is that your knights aren’t. They come as close to him as they ever did, offering him a comradely pat, with no apparent fear of his teeth.
‘The way I see it,’ says your red-haired knight, proud and honest, ‘we have had a year of the wolf’s company and we know him to be peaceful. If he can on occasion be provoked to violence – well, I’ve seen enough of my comrades at their worst to know that no being should be judged on that.’
This is followed by laughter, and a few ribald suggestions as to what various knights’ ‘worst’ has looked like.
‘I can’t deny there are men I’d fight as soon as look at them,’ adds your knight in green. ‘I’ve always heard it said that wolves are canny creatures, and this one has more wit than most wild beasts. If he has the mind of a man, perhaps he has the enmities of one, too.’
You agree with that, but why Bisclavret’s soft-spoken steward of a cousin? ‘You’ve heard nothing of the baron to explain such enmity, I suppose?’ you ask him.
His brow creases in confusion. ‘No. I have no particular knowledge of the man.’
‘Your wife,’ you say uncertainly, wondering if you’ve misremembered. ‘I thought once she had a friendship with Bisclavret’s wife, and that they might yet talk.’
His bewilderment passes, but he seems no less troubled. ‘I’m afraid their friendship did not long survive Bisclavret’s loss, my lord.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
His shrug is uncomfortable, uncertain. ‘No doubt it is my fault. It was our companionship that brought them together, and there was little to keep matters so once that was gone. But there was . . .’ He hesitates.
‘I’ll confess it, though I mislike to do so when she was your ward once.
My wife was not comfortable with how quickly his lady sought refuge in his cousin’s arms. She thought there was more to it than practicality and inheritance – that perhaps there had always been something more to it.
They quarrelled about the matter, and time has not yet mended the rift. ’
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’re rooted 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 time for 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.
How can Bisclavret not be dead? He’s been missing for the better part of two years; his clothes they found mauled and bloody. You’ve mourned him, been cut through by the keen loss of him, and now this knight thinks to suggest that Bisclavret isn’t dead?
‘Sire,’ he says urgently. ‘I should have seen it sooner, but only now has it become clear to me. From the day we encountered him, I told you that this wolf has the mind of a man – you’ve seen yourself how he feels loyalty and hatred the way a man feels them.’
‘What is your point?’ you ask. The blood has begun to saturate the cloth in your hands; it’s sticky against your skin.
‘My point is that he has shown nothing but gentleness and protection towards us all since the moment you brought him home. There is nothing violent in his temperament. And yet we have seen him just these past days inflict violence upon two individuals, as though he harbours some grudge against them. But what grudge would a wolf have towards Bisclavret’s cousin and his wife? ’
You look across to the wolf, still pulling at the ropes holding him back, refusing to be calmed. His usually placid eyes are filled with murderous intention as he looks at the woman in front of you. Very few people could look on such a creature and believe there is nothing violent in its nature.
‘Because they live near the forest?’ you suggest, already knowing it’s the wrong answer. ‘Because they have come against him in the past?’
The lady makes some remark through her sobs, inaudible because of the cloth pressed against her face. She pulls it aside and manages to repeat: ‘He is dead. The wolf – the wolf has a hatred for our household. He killed Bisclavret and now he will kill me and my husband. He has already tried.’
You have no desire to believe her – it grieves you to think you’ve found companionship in the beast that killed a man you held so dear. But how else are you to make sense of this?
Your knight in green shakes his head vigorously.
‘It isn’t so,’ he insists, and he’s so earnest you’re inclined to listen, despite the wildness of his claims. You want him – need him – to be right.
The idea that Bisclavret might have survived ignites in you a desperation you thought had long since faded into the dull acceptance of grief.
‘This isn’t the violence of a wild animal.
This is the vengeance of a wronged man.’
It’s true that you’ve remarked on the wolf’s curious intelligence, the hints of a rational mind beneath the animal skin, but that doesn’t mean you intended for such utterances to be taken as truth. And yet—
You look from the wolf to the injured woman and then to the knight: ‘Explain.’
‘The wolf is not Bisclavret’s killer,’ he says, eyes bright with conviction. ‘The wolf is Bisclavret.’