‘Tell me about the “less”,’ you say. ‘What am I missing?’
‘Sire, it is not my place to disclose—’
‘I am your king.’
‘And he is my kin.’ It causes him difficulty to speak thus, you see that, but nevertheless he sets his jaw and it is plain you will get nothing from him that he does not wish to tell you. ‘Sire, Bisclavret is a faithful knight to you. Where his limitations allow it, he’ll serve you as faithfully and entirely as any other man in your service. I will not deny that he has limitations; his health is not strong. As you may recall, he made this plain to you from the beginning and I was the one to push him on it. I did not expect, I will admit, that he would marry; I might have cautioned him against that, had he sought my advice on the matter. But he did not, and I have no right to stop him.’
And nor do you, when this is Bisclavret’s choice, but if that choice is hurting him as much as it seems to be . . .
‘My lord,’ says the cousin, ‘I’m sorry I can tell you no more. But either he is your knight, or he is not. If he is your knight, then he must keep to his oaths and it is your place to challenge him if he does not. Do not think to spare him that – he would not wish your pity, however poorly he might feel that day. Has he failed you in some way?’
‘No,’ you say immediately. ‘No, of course not. He declined to join the hunt for the sake of his health, and he was quite right to do so. I should not have asked him in the first place. My reason was momentarily overcome by my eagerness to give him his share of glory, but hunting wolves in his state would be far from wise.’
Are you imagining it, or does his cousin, too, flinch at the mention of wolves? Perhaps there is some darkness in their family history that instils such deep fear in them both.
‘He is still weak, my lord,’ he says. ‘He would be better resting. When I realised he had come here instead of going home,I—’ He breaks off, as though he has said more than he meant to.
‘He was abroad, then? Away from home, in his illness?’
‘It takes him like . . . like a sleepwalker.’ His cousin chews on his lip a moment. ‘Deranges him of his senses and sets him walking, wandering in the woods.’
‘A dangerous occupation,’ you note, ‘when there are wolves about. He could have been killed.’
‘Yes,’ says his cousin miserably. ‘When your messengers arrived this morning, I feared that would be the news they brought, though I hadn’t heard then of the wolves. There are other dangers, of course, for a man wandering witless. I was relieved to learn that he was here, instead.’
Not madness, but like madness. You are beginning to think Bisclavret was not overstating the matter when he spoke of it in such terms. ‘And his wife, she knows of this affliction?’ you say, expecting assent, but the expression on his cousin’s face says otherwise. ‘Why not?’
‘Pride? Shame? I couldn’t rightly say, sire. I hoped he would tell her before they married, but he would not be persuaded.’ His face is drawn with concern, and you wonder how he found himself in this peculiar position of responsibility for his kinsman. They had some youthful friendship, you know that much, but many men are close in childhood without making the other their steward and closest confidant. ‘What he hopes to gain by delaying the moment of confession, I can’t fathom. And to come here . . .’
‘He sought to delay it still further, I suspect.’ You sigh. ‘You’re right. He should be resting.’ You would rest with him, if you had the chance; with this dull weight on your mind and the bitter, dank cold of the rainy day, you’d rather be in bed than hunting wolves, a chase with no feast waiting at the closeof it. ‘But if you could convey to him my concerns, I would appreciate that.’
‘With gladness, sire.’ He is certainly more comfortable now that you have stopped asking difficult questions. You respect his concern for his cousin’s secrets, but nevertheless resent his silence. You would have the knowledge from him that you cannot obtain from Bisclavret, whether or not he wants you to know.
After a long pause, you say, ‘The roof. Is it mended?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Some weeks ago, Bisclavret told me that there were holes in the roof. Are they patched?’
His expression clears; he has followed your meaning. ‘Yes, sire, and the draughts kept out. The house still wants for colour but it’s a safe, dry place for an invalid to convalesce, and the servants well able for helping him.’
‘Good.’ The relief comes with a counterpart of dejection: there is now no reason you might beg Bisclavret to stay a few nights here, and be cared for in the comfort of the castle. ‘I suppose you’ll see to it that he doesn’t overexert himself during his recovery.’
‘I plan to do my best.’
And no doubt Bisclavret will make it a challenge. ‘Then I will give him into your capable hands. But will you not join the hunt yourself?’
You are not mistaking it: there’s fear in his eyes. ‘No, sire,’ he says, covering his discomfort quickly. ‘Unless you object, I intend to return with Bisclavret. I am more use as his steward than as your huntsman.’
There’ll be enough of you, anyway, once word has got out. ‘If there is anything at all you feel would aid in Bisclavret’s recovery, you have but to ask,’ you tell him. ‘He is my knight; I would have him recovered quickly.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘And—’ You break off. ‘And give him my best wishes.’
It is nothing, but it is all you can give.
23
