Bisclavret

By K.L. Noone

A very long time ago, in the very old forests of Brittany, a werewolf loved a king ...

The Lord Bisclavret has a secret. A family enchantment. A wolf’s curse, transforming him when the moon is full. He hopes to be a good lord for his people, and he’s always been a loyal king’s man, even if the new king is inexperienced and scholarly. But one betrayal might leave him trapped in wolf-shape forever ... unless his king can save him.

Andreas would rather be a University scholar than a king, and has no interest in a royal marriage -- desire’s always come slowly, if at all. But he loves his kingdom, so he’ll try to protect it, even when rumors of a man-killing wolf spread across his land. He’ll pick up a sword and go out on a hunt, and hope to keep his people safe.

But the wolf has the eyes of a man, and the scholar-king’s knowledge of folklore and fairy-stories might break a werewolf’s curse ... with the help of love.

Very loosely based on the twelfth-century story by Marie de France, Bisclavret features a bisexual werewolf lord, a demisexual king who’d rather be a scholar, some exasperated men-at-arms, and very important stolen clothing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646562268

K.L. Noone

K.L. Noone loves fantasy, romance, cats, far too sweet coffee, and happy endings! She is also the author of Port in a Storm and its upcoming sequel, available from Less Than Three Press, and numerous short romances with Ellora’s Cave and Circlet Press; her fantasy fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Sword and Sorceress anthologies. With her Professor Hat on, she teaches college students about Shakespeare and superhero comics, and has published academic articles and essays on Neil Gaiman’s adaptations of Beowulf, Welsh mythology in modern fantasy, and Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels.

Book preview

4

Chapter 1

At night, sometimes, with the salt-sweet red taste running through my mouth, I still dream of spears and the hunt with relief, not fear.

Sometimes I dream it even when I remain human. Like the memories of blood, it never quite goes away. I have lived with both blood and dreams for a very long time.

In the mornings, or in the depths of night, or when he notices my mood, Andreas puts arms around me and makes me laugh or offers a gift of the newest copy of a broadside Robin o’ the Green ballad. He knows me so well. Better than I once believed possible. The worst, the best, the ordinary.

I do love the ordinary. Porridge and cream. A plunge into the lake, shedding shapes like lead for both of us: my wolf’s heritage, and his King’s crown.

He’s still young to be a king. He’s younger than I am by a good twelve years; I’d would’ve been his bannerman in any case, the aging Lord of Marrock Wood, even if I’d never become King’s Consort and, more or less by default, Royal Librarian. Andreas’s father had not cared much for books and maps and scrolls; his son’s unrestrained pleasure in histories and romances and tales of one-eyed giants and sea-serpents and glass submersible ships has made the kingdom richer, if somewhat messy with magpie collector’s tendencies.

I love him.

Even after three years, saying so astounds me. Spoken. Written. Aloud. Shared. I love him, he loves me, and sometimes he rests a hand in my wolf’s fur while posed on the throne and every inch a ruler, and when in human shape I spoke my marriage-vows to him I thought I might shapeshift into a pool of gold out of sheer magical happiness.

He says I ought to tell my own story. He says that history matters, the history of kings and werewolves and the magic of our land. He says that I’m the one who knows best what happened, since he wasn’t there for the beginning. He was, of course, but only at a distance. As my king.

I do love him. So I said I’d try.

The story begins with my wife, and with chickens.

I expect I ought to explain.

The curse or gift or blessing of the Lords of Marrock Wood has been, for time out of mind, this: for three days each month we take wolf-form involuntarily, and run in the woods, under silver moon and silver stars and silver tree-leaves, quivering with wild fierce hunger and joy. We can transform at other times, but it takes effort; the change back requires a token, a specific reminder of shape to pour oneself into.

That will be important, in a moment.

My father was a gentle man, and a good lord, and a friend; he taught me to run, to leap, to taste the world in a dizzying array of smells and colors and bounding muscles. He only ever hunted in the greenwood, and never harmed anything tame.

I tried my best to do the same, in turn, and I thought I did: my villages prospered, crops were good, the country as a whole lay bright and green and prosperous around us. The new young King had only just come to the throne; we grieved the appropriate amount for the old King and attended the coronation, finely clad but a decent distance from the ceremony, as befitting a country lord who worried over the state of forest roads and did not sit on the Inner Council.

I brought my wife. The Lady Elaine.

Elaine…

What

Reviews for Bisclavret

[Rosinanta · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Short beutiful story with breath of melancholy. Lord Bisclavred writes about love, forgivness, happiness, trust...about himself.

[T · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Bisclavret is my favorite werewolf story, so I was thrilled to find another take on it, although a little apprehensive. This novel deviates from the original in a few minor points (and one major, but you probably guessed as much), but it is very well written and well worth reading. Not only did it not dissapoint, it far exceeded my expectations. This is the werewolf literature that should be popular, rather than its alpa-male featuring counterparts