The Raven and the Rose

by Jo Beverley

  “It’s worrying. He wants the chalice, and he’d match it with the lance if he could.”

  Gledys knew he was right. “He won’t get it, but when we summon it, we must be alert for the others.”

  “At least Eustace is far away in Suffolk.”

  Gledys thought of pointing out that distance didn’t seem to obey the same laws in the garalarl’s world, but it was something she didn’t understand herself. He’d see.

  They were soon free of even the outermost shelters, and following the track into the woods. As they approached, Gledys felt him rein the horse to a sudden stop. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Gledys leaned to look ahead, and smiled to see the warm glow. “Our path.” A dark shape swooped overhead, making the horse toss its head. “And there’s our guide. Follow the raven and the golden path, husband, and we will soon find peace.”

  He made a sound that was half snort, half groan, but he set the horse in the direction of the path. Gledys glanced back and noted how the glow faded as they passed. Would they be led to a resting– place? She hoped not. It would be too hard now to lie together without consummating their vows, and they must not do that yet. She hoped they were being led to Glastonbury, especially to the tor. That old longing still ached in her, a deep, pulsing need.

  They were in the woodland now but, as before, following a path that seemed to avoid low branches and anything that might snag their clothing in passing. Gledys rested against Michael’s back, lulled by the swaying rhythm of the walking horse.

  And dreamed . . .

  She saw fighting again, and again from a distance. Thank God for that, for this time it was hellish, filled with blood and fire. And the scene was a monastery. Monks ran from armed men. Soldiers grabbed food, wine and coffers. Some threw books onto fires. And in the center, a demonic figure howled with glee, shaking aloft an ancient wooden lance in his mailed fist.

  He must be Eustace of Boulogne, despoiling the abbey of Saint Edmundsbury, perhaps seeking to kill Michael and all like him. If he wasn’t stopped, Rosewell would be next. Gledys wanted to reach out, to snatch the lance from his grip and use it to kill him.

  The scene faded and she saw a woman’s hands holding an ancient vessel, more cooking pot than chalice, full of wondrous foods. Then it changed to a taller cup with handles, which brimmed over with golden wine. Then a horn cup of ale, and then a chalice, much like the one at Rosewell, but set with gleaming stones of red and green and blue and full of bloodred roses.

  Again a woman cradled it, and on her left hand she wore a ring, the one Gledys now wore. Peace filled Gledys’s mind, a peace of rose perfume and sweet music, of sunlight and flowing water.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Gledys opened her eyes and leaned to peer ahead of him. Her joy increased. They were emerging from the woods, and ahead, dark against the gray sky, she saw the great hill.

  “That’s the tor,” she said. “Glastonbury Tor, where the chalice lies. Follow the path and the raven, husband. They will take us to where we need to be.”

  Chapter 8

  The land wasn’t flat on this approach, and they rode up and down, but always without hindrance or hazard. As the grade grew steeper, he halted his horse. “Time to walk,” he said, swinging his leg over the front to dismount and then lifting her down.

  Gledys was stiff and needed to cling for a moment. “How long have we traveled?” she asked.

  “Some hours. I gather you slept.”

  “And dreamed. I saw Prince Eustace with the lance, despoiling the monastery.”

  “May he rot in hell.”

  “He will. And then I dreamed of the holy cup, of it washing all hatred and violence away. It is very beautiful.”

  He took her hand. “Then let us follow our path to it.”

  “Wait a moment.” Gledys freed her hand in order to hitch her skirt higher into her belt, and then took off the silly veil and tucked that over the belt. “That’s better.”

  He laughed and then they followed the glimmering path.

  The climb wasn’t as steep as she feared, for the glowing path seemed to lead around the hill rather than straight up it. Then it turned back, not to go downward again, but to circle upward in a different direction.

  “Strange,” he said, halting. “Better to go straight up.”

  “No,” Gledys said, smiling. “I think it’s a labyrinth.”

  “A labyrinth? We have no time for that.”

  She took his hand. “Follow the golden path, husband.”

  Now she recognized the pattern, and the spiraling walk raised Gledys’s thoughts to God. She was so lost in the physical prayer that she was startled when he stopped her.

  “The path’s gone,” he said.

  “Here? We’re not at the top.”

  “You said we should go where we are led.” He turned to the right and she saw what he saw—a glow in the very hillside.

  Gledys blinked, but it didn’t disappear. It looked almost like a window covered by a cloth that allowed a little light to escape. They walked hand in hand toward the light. As they were about to walk through it, however, Gledys stopped to look back.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m trying to see if anyone is following us.”

  He stared into the darkness, too, but said, “Impossible without the lighted path. Come.”

  They walked through the rectangle of light and into a sort of cave. It was large, the roof arching high above their heads, and filled with light that seemed to come from the walls themselves. She trembled in awareness of something powerful and old, transcendent, and at the same time dangerous.

  There was nothing in the cave except a stone plinth—a rectangular pillar of stone that stood as high as Gledys’s chest and looked as if it should hold a statue. She went to it and found it warm, as stone could never be unless it sat by a fire. She traced strange designs intertwined like endless, complex labyrinths, and then saw leaves in the design, and even faces.

  She turned to Michael. “Do you hear something?”

  “No. Or . . . yes. What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She cocked her head. “It’s as if the hill is singing.”

  The harmony vibrated in her bones, but in the sweetest way. “Yes,” she said, “this is the antithesis of war.” She turned and held her hands out to him. “I believe this is where we’re supposed to finally come together, my husband.”

  He took her hands, but said, “I hoped for something softer than rock.”

  Gledys glanced behind him and smiled. “Will a bed do?”

  He turned. “That wasn’t there before.”

  “Or not quite.” This looked like the bed she’d used last night. She went to confirm it, and yes, the mattress was stuffed with feathers and the blanket was of the same thick, soft wool. “In this realm distance and even time are different. People and things move in mysterious ways.”

  Michael touched the wool, too, but said, “Why am I troubled?”

  “Because we’re used to distance and time behaving as usual.” She reached up to touch his hair, to stroke it. “And because we want this so much, so it could be the work of the devil. But it isn’t. Satan is the agent of war, not peace.” She pressed forward and leaned on his chest. “Lie with me, my husband, and we shall bring peace.”

  His arms came around her. “Willingly, but I doubt it will be entirely peaceful.”

  She looked up at him, already tingling with need. “I doubt that, too.”

  He unfastened her belt so it fell to the ground. She cradled his face and stretched up to kiss him. He stepped back to unbuckle his own belt, with its burden of pouch, knife and sword, but all the time he looked at her, cherishing her with his gaze. Gathering her courage, she raised her gown and took it off, so she stood in only her chemise. He was unfastening his low boots, so she did the same.
Then she took off her stockings.

  Even the rough ground seemed to have smoothed beneath her feet, and she felt no stone or grit as she walked to the bed, pulled back the covers, and sat on it.

  He’d undressed except for his shirt, and he came to kneel before her. “I’d see you naked,” he said huskily, with a depth of longing that made her laugh softly with delight as she shed her last covering, amazed to feel no trace of shame.

  “I’d see you naked, too,” she murmured, embarrassed a little by that bold request.

  “Gladly, lady,” he said, and took off his shirt before sitting beside her.

  She hesitated for a moment, but then couldn’t resist reaching out to hold his strong shoulders, catching her breath at the heat of him. It felt as if he alone could be responsible for the perfect warmth of this mysterious place.

  He moved down onto the bed, bringing her with him, pulling the covers over them both, and it was as it had been in that dream encounter except that this was completely real and wonderful.

  He stroked hair off her face. “I have no practiced skill to offer you in this, my bride.”

  “Nor have I, and I suspect you’ve a great deal more knowledge.”

  “It’s a simple enough matter, I believe, and our bodies are made for it.”

  His calloused hand was running over her, down flank to thigh, up belly to—ah—breast. He cradled it in his hand as if weighing it, and stroked it as if learning every curve. He kissed her there, then gently sucked the peak, tonguing it.

  She gasped, and her hands were on him, wherever she could reach, gripping and kneading hard-muscled flesh. Her womb ached for him deep inside.

  He moved her thighs apart, edging over her, between her legs, supporting himself on one arm as he touched her below, exploring her, his features still and fascinated. What he was doing made her gasp at each new intense sensation. She raised her hips to him. He muttered something deep in his throat and settled against her. His hardness pushed at her. So strange, so alarming! So right. But still she tensed as he pushed forward, as pain jabbed her.

  She knew of this. Even in the convent they knew a woman had a maidenhead that must be broken before a man could enter her and get her with child. A terrible pain, they were told, and nuns were fortunate never to suffer it.

  The pain built. She would not scream; she would not scream.

  Then, with a sharp burning, it was over and he was in her, filling her in a way that made her cry, “Yes!” She looked into his darkened eyes, smiling, she knew, with lips and eyes, with her whole body, if a whole body could smile. “My husband.”

  “My precious, beautiful wife.”

  He began to slide in and out of her, watching her with careful concern, but then his eyes closed and he lost himself in her, and she in him as they pounded together, heat building more heat as if to forge them, fuse them. Heart racing, breath gasping, Gledys gripped his hot flesh and sank teeth into his salty skin as they burst into flame, it seemed, and were consumed by pleasure surely beyond the ordinary mating of a man with a maid.

  Spiraling down, they clung together, touching, kissing, laughing a little, exhausted but exhilarated until she came to rest, sprawled, tingling and sweaty, on his chest.

  She could have stayed there like that for eternity, but he said softly, “Gledys . . .”

  She looked up at him, and then turned.

  On the plinth sat a glowing goblet—the one Gledys had seen in her vision, the one made of gold and set with precious stones, full of impossible, bloodred roses. She scrambled up off the bed, grabbing her chemise and putting it on, instinctively covering herself in the presence of the sacred. Then she reverently approached the holy chalice, the ancient garalarl.

  He came up beside her, wearing his shirt and braies, and put a hand on her back. “That must have been the most pleasant holy duty ever devised, but what do we do now?”

  “Perhaps that’s enough,” Gledys said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  She elbowed him. “To summon it. Now there will be peace.”

  “I think not.”

  The words came from behind and they both spun toward the entrance, where an intruder stood: a man in armor, sword in hand, evil in his pale eyes. Gledys would never have thought the devil could show so clearly in a person, but here surely stood an agent of Satan.

  “Eustace.” Michael spoke deep in his throat, like a growl.

  This was King Stephen’s son, whom she’d seen in a dream in an ecstasy of destruction? Her mind went blank with shock, but then she remembered: He was here for the chalice!

  She stepped between the cup and evil, willing the chalice to disappear, to go back to its other dimension. But it stayed in view.

  “Don’t you know?” the prince said, smiling. “Once in this realm, it must stay until the wheel turns toward peace. And while here, it can be captured. I have waited for this moment, and now all is mine. I will unite the cup with the lance and the world will grovel at my feet.”

  Michael moved, and the man sneered. “No monk will stop me. I won’t flinch from cross or holy water.”

  He took a step forward, confident that he faced impotent opposition, but Michael threw himself to the floor, rolling to avoid the suddenly swooping sword. He thrust back onto his feet at the man’s back, a whine sounding as he freed his own sword of its scabbard just in time to block another deadly blow.

  Gledys covered her mouth with her hand. Michael wore only light clothing against a fully armored man. He had no shield. And—had he forgotten?—he was no longer pure. He could be killed.

  Blades clashed, striking sparks and nearly deafening her as the men twisted and turned. She felt a flicker of hope, for Michael was more agile without metal all over him. But then he landed a mighty blow on his opponent’s leg, and the prince only staggered and grunted. A similar blow in return would take Michael’s leg off.

  “God on high, protect him,” she began to pray. “Christ, guard him. Holy Spirit, inspire him. . . .”

  The next sweep of Prince Eustace’s sword whistled an inch above Michael’s ducked head, and Michael’s counterstrike was again foiled by armor. Both men were breathing hard, and Gledys remembered the fight she’d seen in her dream, which had been settled in the end by sheer exhaustion.

  Seeking extra power for her prayers, Gledys grasped the chalice, feeling the potent song of it down through her bones. Save him, save him, save him. . . .

  Light burst from the vessel, filling the cave.

  A man cried out.

  Half-blind, Gledys stared at tangled shapes, one bright, one dark, trying to make sense of them.

  When her vision began to clear, the dark one was on the ground, and the warrior of light stood over him, sword raised to kill. He hesitated, however, and Prince Eustace taunted him.

  “You can’t kill the king’s son. That’s treason of the highest degree. They’ll hunt you down and take you apart piece by piece. You and your whore, too.”

  Gledys saw Michael inhale and raise the sword higher, ready to drive it down.

  Enraged at the foul man, she grasped the cup to her chest and cried, “Curse you, curse you, Eustace of Boulogne!”

  The dark figure rolled his head back to stare at her, eyes wide with terror. He howled in a way she’d never imagined a human being could howl, writhing in unearthly agony. She watched in horror as a bloody glow revealed the fires of hell, and they swallowed him.

  The cave floor became whole again, shutting off the fiery light, but a ruddy luminescence lingered in the garalarl cup Gledys still clutched. She stared at Michael, who stared back at her. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and she was shaking as if with a fever. Horrified sickness bit at the back of her throat.

  Michael put his sword aside and came to her, taking the chalice out of her clutch and replacing it on its plinth. Then he gathered her into his st
rong arms and she shuddered against his chest. Slowly, eventually, they moved apart, looking into each other’s wide eyes, then both turning to the place where Prince Eustace had lain. Gledys expected to see a stain, or even scorch marks, but the ground was unchanged.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  In a flat voice, Michael said, “I hope he was sent straight to hell.”

  “But . . . what will happen if he’s disappeared? What if anyone found out that we . . . that I did it?”

  His lips quirked with a touch of wry humor. “According to Duke Henry, Eustace is in Suffolk. Whether we’re known to be in Nottinghamshire or Somerset, we could not possibly harm him there.”

  Gledys shook her head at his light tone, but it was helping her settle down. She turned to look at the chalice again, to thank it, but she was only just in time to see the last ghostly shape of it fade, then disappear. The only sign that it had ever existed here was a solitary bloodred rose.

  “But he said it couldn’t leave until . . .”

  “. . . the wheel turned toward peace. Praise be to God, that must have happened.”

  “Because he is dead? Truly dead?”

  Michael inhaled. “God is good.” He looked around the cave. “Our bed has gone,” he said regretfully, “but it’s time for us to leave in any case.”

  He picked up his sword and examined it, grimacing as he rubbed his thumb over a chip in the blade. That mundane action made Gledys laugh. It was shaky, but it was a laugh.

  “He thought you were a monk,” she said.

  “Stupid as well as vile.”

  “Perhaps the chalice guided you to leave your armor behind. It gave you the advantage of surprise.”

  He considered that. “Indeed, but I think the darker work this night belongs not to a chalice, but to the ancient garalarl. It may be the agent of peace, but it’s also a bloody cup. Come. It’s time to leave.”

  Gledys felt it, too: an urgency as the cave cooled and dimmed, as if they might be trapped here if they lingered. They dressed quickly and hurried to the exit, but there she paused.

  The rose had been left for a reason, so she ran back and took it before fleeing into the normality of night.