by Jo Beverley
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“—but it has been broken in our hands again and again. And now true peril looms.”
The old nun fell silent, perhaps debating whether to say more.
Gledys couldn’t bear it. “What peril?” What could be worse than what they had?
“There is another ancient line, as old and powerful, that gains its power from blood, pain, death and grief. That power has gorged on eighteen years of strife, and those of the line have become strong enough to steal the holy lance from the Templars.”
Gledys felt light-headed. “The lance that pierced our Lord’s flesh at the crucifixion? It still exists?”
“It does, and it isn’t sanctified as the chalice is. The lance exists entirely in this earthly realm and retains its warlike nature. In the wrong hands, it inflames anger and violence, and drives people to war. It is now in the hands of King Stephen’s vile son, Eustace of Boulogne, and, unchecked, he will use it to keep the war raging.”
Gledys put a hand to her dazed head, trying to make sense of it all. “Who is ‘we’?” she asked. “Who has struggled to bring peace alone?”
“We of the garalarl line who have preserved the lore. But even among us too many hesitated.”
“Why? If peace is within our grasp, why?”
The old woman sighed. “The cup brings peace how it wills, not as mere mortals wish, and the garalarl adepts are mortal souls with mortal frailties. They seek to control the outcome. The arguments among us have been as divisive as those among the barons. For eighteen years the choice has been between Countess Matilda and Stephen of Blois. Matilda is a haughty woman who brings destruction in her train—and a woman! Even among us, many of us women, that appalled. Stephen is weak and easily led. His weakness has created anarchy, but at the beginning he seemed to many a safer choice.
“But now the countess has given her right of succession to her son. He’s male, able and seems good. Still, some worry that he will be too strong, while others bleat that at twenty-one, he’s too young. ‘Wait a while, wait a while,’” she muttered, clearly echoing endless debates. “But the time for waiting is over. Armed with the lance, Prince Eustace has inspired his father to break the truce. Unhindered, he will set fire to England, and the only power able to overcome the lance is you. You and the sacred cup.”
Gledys stepped back from that appalling idea. “Me? I’m nothing. A woman. A nun.”
“A garalarl maiden,” snarled Sister Wenna. “Not nothing. Everything!”
Gledys hugged herself and turned to pace the room. If ever she’d wished to be important, she took all such wishes back. She didn’t want such a calling, but the truth of Sister Wenna’s warnings ached in her bones, fed by her dreams and her longing for the tor. She even felt it now, like the heavy air before a storm, or a shaking of the earth beneath her feet.
But this summons felt like a call to martyrdom.
She turned back to the old nun. “If I do this, will I die?”
Sister Wenna shrugged, as if that, too, were irrelevant. And perhaps it was.
“It’s not normally the way of it. Your predecessor lived to a good age.”
“My predecessor?”
“I told you. Thousands of years. There have been many. Enough of this. You must set out to find your protector, and then together you will summon the holy chalice.”
“How do I find him?” But then a wondrous idea crept in through fear and confusion. “He will be a knight?”
“I spoke of holy sevenths,” the old nun scoffed. “No, he’ll be a monk.”
Gledys’s chest ached as she surrendered that sweet hope. “At what monastery?” she asked.
Sister Wenna’s eyes shifted again, but then she sighed. “We don’t know.”
“What? You knew about me, but you don’t know where my protector is?”
“No, which is another reason for the delay in summoning you. But you will be led to him.”
Gledys rubbed at her temples through her headcloth. “None of this makes sense. How can a nun and a monk oppose Prince Eustace, especially if he possesses the holy lance, and it has the powers you describe?”
“With the power of the garalarl. Have faith.”
“So I’m supposed to find my monk and then together we’ll summon the chalice. That is all that is required to bring peace? What of Prince Eustace and the lance?”
“There will be a struggle to regain the lance and return it to its proper place, but that is for the Templars. Your duty will be done. There is only one more thing that you must know.”
“What?” Gledys asked warily.
“Eustace may have a more dangerous plan yet, and it is another reason some have hesitated to summon you. The secrets tell us that if the chalice and the lance are ever brought together, they will create unimaginable power. Power that should never exist, in good hands or bad. Once that happens, destruction will sweep not just England but the whole world. Do you understand me? The whole world.”
Gledys flinched from the intensity and the very idea, but it was hard to reject Sister Wenna’s words. Her eyes glowed with an unearthly truth that Gledys felt resonating in her own bones.
“Unlike the lance,” Sister Wenna said, “the chalice is vulnerable only when summoned into this earthly plane.”
“Then perhaps those who hesitate are right. Perhaps I shouldn’t summon the chalice.”
“The lance is already in evil hands, and only the chalice can oppose it. We must take the risk, and a true pure protector will keep both you and it safe.”
“Pure?” Sister Wenna had stressed that before.
“A virgin,” Sister Wenna said bluntly.
“Oh,” Gledys said. That certainly ended any hope that her protector was her knight. She couldn’t imagine that laughing warrior refraining from bodily pleasures. “That is why he’ll be a monk.”
“Yes, but not all monasteries are strict. We can only trust in God and the garalarl.”
That combination seemed sacrilegious, but Gledys accepted that somehow she now embraced the unbelievable. Even so, she said, “It seems wrong that we leave our service to God. We have both taken vows.”
Sister Wenna made an impatient sound. “It has happened before. Your predecessor was Sybilla de Fontmarie. She left here in 1101 at the age of twenty to marry a young man who had been a monk at Saint Edmundsbury Abbey.”
“What happened in 1101?”
“You don’t know recent history, either? King Henry seized the throne on the death of his older brother, King William Rufus. The next-oldest—and likely successor—was Robert, Duke of Normandy, but Henry was in England and had himself crowned. It could have led to something like the evil we endure now. Robert invaded, but then he abandoned his efforts. Under King Henry, England was blessed with thirty-five years of peace, because Sybilla de Fontmarie and Richard de Grotte knew their duty.”
Names made this all more real. Had Sister Sybilla of Rosewell been restless before she was summoned? Had she stared in bewildered longing at the tor?
“Then my family will summon me to marry my protector?” Gledys said. “Why did you upset me with talk of leaving here immediately, with needing to find him?”
“There’s no time for all that. You must leave now, find him and lie with him in a sacred site. That will summon the garalarl.”
Gledys stared. “Lie with him?”
“Mate, then. You know what I mean.”
“With a stranger?” Gledys protested, her voice climbing. “Without marriage?”
“The garalarl won’t mind your lack of vows.”
Gledys remembered the back door beyond the storage rooms and backed toward it, crossing herself. “No, no. I’m sorry, but this is all wrong. You must have come from Satan. I’ll listen to no more.”
Sister Wenna was unimpressed. “You’re summoned, Gledys of Buckford. L
isten or not; you no longer have any choice.”
Those words pursued Gledys as she fled through the storage rooms and out into the bloody sunset light.
Chapter 4
She expected to be pursued, but she could easily outrun such an old woman—unless Sister Wenna turned into a raven and took flight. A glance back showed no one, and she couldn’t run around Rosewell without raising questions, so she made herself walk as if on an errand.
Where should she go to think, to decide?
It couldn’t be right to sin like that, but Prince Eustace was truly a vile man. Hadn’t Sister Elizabeth told her that barons were deserting the king because they couldn’t bear the thought of a man like Eustace on the throne? Against her will, she looked toward the tor, which now glowed as if afire. Just sunset, but there had been such power in Sister Wenna’s words.
What if she, Sister Gledys, did have a special calling? What if the tor had dominated her thoughts for so long for a reason? What if she could bring peace, precious peace, to her land? What if the price of her failure was Eustace of Boulogne on the throne of England, inflicting evil here and even farther afield? Over the whole world?
Another thought crept in: Would she have fled in horror if her protector were her knight?
That would be a vile state of mind, and yet it might be true.
She felt as if she were already married to him and being asked to lie with another. When she thought of such intimacy with him, however, no amount of willpower could stop her heart from beating faster, from yearning so strongly that she might not need a holy calling to sin, only opportunity.
Wicked, wicked, wicked!
Gledys fled to the chapel.
The Rosewell chapel was small but lovely, built of stone four hundred years ago. The inside walls were whitewashed and decorated with painted pink roses, and small windows in the side walls let in light and birdsong. A simple wooden cross stood on the plain altar cloth, dark against the precious glass window that glowed in shades from cream to amber. It faced west so that the setting sun added fire to the squares of glass, and the light gilded the pale walls and the bleached whiteness of the altar cloth. Even the smells were soothing here—wood, wool and candle wax alongside traces of the incense used by the priests during some services.
Gledys turned to her favorite meditation—walking the labyrinth painted on the stone floor. The coiling paths, turning back on themselves again and again, allowing no choice but to follow, always soothed her mind and allowed her prayers to flow. She entered at the single opening and immediately felt solace. The chapel was God’s tranquil place, and the labyrinth a path to Him. Here, He would guide her.
“Bring peace to this land,” she murmured. “But peace without my having to act.”
Everything about Sister Wenna’s summoning terrified her, but it was the loss of her knight . . . “Deliver me from temptation. Give me a sign, Lord. Show me the holy way.”
Nothing happened. Of course. Had she believed for a moment that she was some special instrument of God? Too soon she came back to the entrance, the labyrinth walk completed, but her prayers unanswered. She turned toward the cross and said the dutiful words “Thy will be done.”
A golden flash startled her. She blinked. It must have been the sun glinting off something on the altar. But what?
Ah. Nothing miraculous. Simply the chalice, but the precious silver goblet, as old as the chapel, shouldn’t be out except in preparation for a Mass. Of course, no one in Rosewell would steal it, but between Masses, it was locked in the sacristy chest.
Had it been there all along?
Wouldn’t she have noticed it?
Perhaps Sister Thomasine, the sacristan, had come in while she was praying. Had a priest arrived unexpectedly? Were they to have a Mass? That would be a blessed opportunity to drive any devils away.
She was alone, however.
She turned toward the small side door, intending to find the sacristan, but it felt wrong to leave the chalice unprotected. She tried a soft call: “Sister Thomasine?”
No answer. Very well, she’d take the chalice with her into the sacristy. If Sister Thomasine was there, she’d be irritated, but it felt wrong to abandon it. Gledys climbed the three shallow steps to the altar and reached out—but then swiftly drew back her hand.
There was blood inside the cup! A small pool of blood.
After a heart-stopped moment, she leaned forward again and saw it wasn’t blood—of course it wasn’t—but a deep red rose petal.
A deep red rose petal?
“What are you doing!”
The shrill voice made Gledys jump back. She turned to face Sister Thomasine. “Nothing, Sister! I was simply wondering why the chalice was out. Whether I should—”
“You should do nothing!” snapped the woman, grabbing the vessel and clutching it to her ample chest. She was round in body, but sharp in nature. “Return to your brewhouse, Sister Gledys.”
Gledys resented the tone of that dismissal, but she bowed and escaped, shaking.
She hated anger, and it was rare in Rosewell. Gledys had realized almost immediately that the sacristan had left the chalice out and was afraid Gledys would reveal her sin of carelessness.
She herself was shaken by other things.
When Sister Thomasine had clutched the chalice to her chest, the bowl had been tilted forward, and it had been empty. There’d been no rose petal inside or on the floor, where it might have tumbled. Of course, it might have fluttered away, being so light, but wouldn’t she have seen that?
The main fact, however, the thing that had disturbed her before Sister Thomasine’s arrival, was that such a rose petal was impossible. Few roses bloomed as late as August, but more than that, she’d never seen a bloodred rose. Rosewell’s rose gardens were famous, but the blooms were nearly all white, cream and pink. Two that bloomed a deep pink were considered almost miraculous.
She halted, breath caught.
She’d asked for a sign. Had she been sent one? During Mass, the wine in the chalice became the blood of Christ.
No, no, she didn’t want to be part of any miracles. They usually ended with a martyr’s death.
There was one rose that held some blooms into summer and even into autumn. It had been sent to Rosewell by a crusader, and might come from the Holy Land itself. She remembered it as deep pink, but she hurried to the rose garden, hoping she was wrong. Hoping that it bloomed at this time of year, and that the petals were bloodred.
When she arrived, she saw the Autumn Damask rose and sighed. It did still have some blooms, but their color was nothing close to that deep crimson. She went closer to be sure. The flowers were a beautiful color, the deepest pink of a sunset, but not bloodred.
She straightened and turned, searching the garden for some new rose, some undiscovered wonder, but of course there was no such thing.
So where had that rose petal come from?
And just as puzzling, where had it gone?
It had appeared in a chalice that was used in a Mass, which was a reenactment of the Last Supper. That led her mind to the cup that Joseph of Arimathea was said to have brought to Glastonbury—the holy chalice, which, according to Sister Wenna, was also in some way an ancient vessel called the garalarl.
She shook her head, trying to deny it all as nonsense, but it was lodged there like a spike. Too many strange things were coming together.
Then something huge whirred just over her head. Gledys ducked and cried out, stumbling backward. But when she looked, there by the Autumn Damask rosebush was a big black bird, head cocked.
A raven.
A raven!
She’d never seen one before, for they were woodland birds of the north, but that was what it must be. It was much bigger than a crow, its body almost as big as a goose’s, though sleeker and glossier in its black plumage. One golden eye was fixed on her.
Gledys took a careful step backward. “Sweet Lord, I do not wish to go where such a bird might lead.”
Craak! it said, making a sound like a scornful laugh.
It rose with a mighty flap of wings, but it did not fly away. It went only to perch on the rose arbor.
Craak! Craak!
Gledys crossed herself.
The bird changed its perch to a nearby upright pole.
No, a lance. Plain wood, but pointed.
A lance?
Gledys blinked, and it was a rough pole again. Of course it was. That had been only a trick of the fading light and her overset emotions. The vespers bell must ring at any moment. Pray God it drive this evil bird away. She slid another step toward the exit, afraid to turn her back on the fearsome bird.
It flew to another perch—a sword thrust into the ground.
A sword?
No, no, a spade!
Then Gledys saw her knight in his long chain-mail armor, looking at her.
No! Only a dead tree trunk wound around by the stems of a rambling rose. She turned to flee, but saw a golden banner. No, a patch of marigolds. The lance again. A golden cup set with rich jewels whose glow rivaled the sunset, which spilled roses. Bloodred roses.
She made herself stop turning and covered her eyes with her hands. When she slowly lowered them, no strange images danced at the corner of her eye, and the bird was gone. Just another strange dream, but by daylight?
Then she saw another dark shape. It was Sister Wenna, watching her, ravenlike.
“Are you ready to leave yet?” the old woman croaked.
Gledys’s throat was too tight for speech, but she managed to shake her head, and blessedly, the vespers bell began to toll. She hurried to the chapel the long way, avoiding the old nun. Sister Wenna and all the rest were only a dream. It had to be so. Gledys wanted no part of ravens, blood, spears and swords.
As she joined the procession, Sister Elizabeth slipped beside her, brows raised in question, and gave her clothing a pointed look. Gledys looked down and realized she still wore her apron. She untied it and carried the awkward bundle until she could put it in a corner. Once in the chapel, she plunged into the familiar prayers as she might plunge into a bath after having fallen in a filthy pond.
