Chalice of Roses

by Jo Beverley

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.

  But the maddening ideas were not to be washed away. Sister Thomasine shot her a baleful look—so the incident with the chalice had not been a dream. For the first time she glanced around to see if Sister Wenna was here, praying she was not.

  There she was, however, in the chairs provided for the older nuns, standing out in her black robes. Gledys noticed another black-robed nun among the other sisters, a younger one who must be Sister Wenna’s traveling companion.

  So she was real, and something had driven an old, half-crippled woman on a journey. If she told the truth, she’d been compelled by the fact that an evil man had acquired dreadful power, and Gledys could do something about that.

  The prayers came to an end without Gledys finding any answers, and the community formed the procession to go to the refectory for bread and soup, but as the end of the line left the chapel, a great black bird circled, less than two hands above their heads, squawking raucously. Everyone covered and ducked, some exclaiming, some screaming and running back into the chapel.

  So the raven had not been a dream, either.

  Gledys accepted that she was summoned, and until she obeyed, she and everyone else would be pestered like this. Perhaps, like the trials visited upon Egypt in the Bible, each one would be worse, leading even to the death of innocents, until she surrendered.

  The bird had taken a perch on the cross on the chapel roof, but it still gave its ugly craak! sound. Those who’d stayed outside looked up at it, pointing and chattering.

  Gledys went to Sister Wenna, who stood nearby, unalarmed and unsurprised. “What must I do?”

  “Follow the raven.”

  “It’s a bird of ill omen.”

  “Only to some. Others think them messengers from a holy realm.”

  “Like the realm to which Joseph of Arimathea sent the holy chalice?” Gledys wanted to sound scathing, but it didn’t come out that way.

  Sister Wenna nodded.

  “Heaven? That means death.”

  “That should fill any good Christian’s heart with joy, but Sybilla de Fontmarie lived to be sixty-two and bore five children. Not seven, alas, but she served in other ways. The garalarl is kind to those who do its will.” She held out something. “This is yours.”

  It was a silver ring with a coiling, complex design. “Mine?”

  “As the garalarl maiden. Put it on.”

  After a moment, Gledys slid it onto the third finger of her right hand. It fit perfectly.

  As if at a signal, the bird suddenly swooped from cross to gate. It was a clear command. The gates were normally closed directly after vespers, but the sisters whose job it was to do so hesitated, looking up at the black bird.

  With a clap of her hands, the abbess called order. “Enough, sisters. It is only a bird, and supper will be getting cold.”

  The milling about ceased and the nuns hurried with their superior toward the refectory. The only ones left were Gledys, Sister Wenna and the two nuns hovering near the gates. When they went nervously forward to close them, the raven leaned down. Craak! Craak!

  They scuttled back.

  “I can’t just walk out,” Gledys said.

  “No one will stop you.”

  That seemed so unlikely that Gledys decided it was a test. When she was forced back and questioned, she would know this was all nonsense. She walked forward a few steps, but then turned back.

  “I need supplies.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I need to know—”

  “You need nothing. Go! Trust in God. And the raven.”

  Gledys looked from nun to raven, but she knew she had to do this, and from more than duty. She was compelled.

  Her feet moved on their own, carrying her forward, toward the open gates. Expecting at any moment to be stopped, Gledys walked past the gatekeepers, who didn’t seem to see her, and then followed the rough road that led through fields that were rapidly disappearing in the fading light.

  She didn’t even have a lantern. As soon as she reached the dark surrounding trees, she’d lose the road and be lost.

  But no one had prevented her from leaving.

  By that test, she was on a holy journey.

  As if to confirm it, the bird rose into the sky and flapped off ahead of her, drawing her onward. Onward toward the trees, and beyond them, dark against the evening sky, the monastery that crowned the tor.

  Sick with fear, pulsing with excitement, Gledys followed the raven into the deepening dark of night.

  Chapter 5

  “Ho, de Loury! Hero of the day!” The powerful voice conquered even the din of the ale tent.

  Michael turned on his stool from the table, where he was drinking with a group of other young knights, discussing the tourney fighting and Henry of Anjou, the chances of action and Henry of Anjou, and the fighting tomorrow in which Michael and some of the others here would fight in Henry of Anjou’s party.

  The voice belonged to Willie Sea, drunk and troublesome, in a stained, sleeveless jerkin that exposed massive arms furred with the same wiry thatch that covered the rest of him. He had a buxom red-head on his left arm and a huge tankard in his right hand, and a way was opening for him through the crowded space as he headed straight for Michael. He was grinning his gap-toothed smile, but was very drunk.

  Trouble. None of Michael’s companions was a close friend, so he was on his own. Another of his mother’s promises was that he couldn’t be killed before he found his bride, but she hadn’t promised no broken bones. He remembered remarking that immortality was the best argument he’d ever heard against marriage, but she’d just smiled and reminded him of the vow of chastity.

  True enough. What man would choose immortality if he had to die a virgin?

  “Brought you a gift!” Willie Sea bellowed. He had an astonishing voice—useful on a battlefield, painful in an enclosed space—and
the whole tavern had little choice but to attend to the show.

  Michael mirrored the other man’s jovial tone. “How generous, when you’ve already given me your ransom.”

  “Vagaries of battle,” said Willie Sea, without apparent offense. He waved his ale pot. “If you feel guilty, fill this.”

  Perhaps this wouldn’t be too bad. Michael called for the pot boy. When the other man’s tankard was full to the brim he raised his own. “In honor of a worthy opponent.”

  “Amen!” Willie Sea gulped down his ale in one long series of glugs, belched, and bellowed, “Fill her up! And his, too.”

  Once his pot was brimming over again, he sauntered closer, wench still attached, clearly searching his sodden mind for his original purpose. “Gift!” he declared. “Here you are.” He pushed the buxom wench against Michael. “Name’s Liza.”

  Liza was clearly a whore and very willing. She pressed close between Michael’s legs and wound her arms around his neck, but he knew she was a test of his manliness.

  “Aren’t I the lucky one?” she cooed. “First the strongest knight, then the handsomest.”

  “Strongest, too,” Willie Sea growled. “He bested me.”

  A flicker of worry marred the girl’s face, and even in the uncertain candlelight, Michael saw an old bruise on her cheek.

  “The vagaries of battle.” Michael repeated Willie Sea’s words to him over the girl’s head as he sought a way out of this. “But we could test it again.” He flexed his right arm to indicate what he meant.

  After a moment of surprise, Willie Sea cried, “A man after my own heart! Clear a table.”

  The men at three nearby tables scrambled to offer one. Willie Sea cleared some lingering pots from the nearest with a sweep of his mighty arm. Michael put down his own pot, but the girl stayed stuck to him as he walked over to the table.

  She was not to his taste, but by the angel Gabriel’s nonexistent balls, she was a sweet armful. His cock was hard and he wanted nothing more in the world at that moment than to throw her down and use her.

  Sitting opposite his opponent and putting his elbow on the table to take the grip gave him an excuse to separate from twining Liza. She instantly draped herself over his shoulder, her long, loose hair tormenting his cheek as she nibbled at his ear.

  God’s teeth. He needed to concentrate. He needed to lose this contest, but not too quickly. In comparison to Willie Sea’s dark-haired arm, even Michael’s strong one looked weak, but he knew he was strong enough. He always was. Again, because of his mysterious purpose.

  As they wriggled their hands together, adjusting their grips for best purchase, Michael said, “Is this a simple contest of skill, or is something at stake?”

  Willie Sea showed his missing teeth again. “You lose, you return my ransom.”

  “But if you lose?”

  “By the tomb, you’ve drained me dry today!”

  “Then why don’t we fight for the wench? If I win, she’s mine for sure. If you win, I return your gift.” He turned his head toward the girl. “You’ll be a sore loss, sweeting.”

  The girl pouted at him, but was clever enough to know that showing any displeasure at ending up with Willie Sea would be bad for business and her skin.

  “I’ll have a kiss from you first,” she said saucily. “He’s already had more than one, so it’s only fair.”

  There was no way to escape, so when she slid onto his lap, cradled his head in her hands and put skillful lips to his, Michael could only fight to hold on to sanity—difficult when she opened her mouth and tormented him with her tongue. Especially when he imagined it was his bride kissing him so boldly, her moisture blending with his, her tongue . . .

  He opened his eyes to break the spell, but saw dark hair, not red. He clutched that hair close to the skull and found it strangely short. She even smelled different. Cleaner, and without any perfume. Except for something that threatened his wits entirely . . .

  She drew back slowly, those full lips parted, eyes wide with surprise and a kind of innocence the red-haired whore had lost long ago.

  Was he dreaming?

  No. Beyond her was the tavern, the circle of grinning men, and Willie Sea opposite. Their right hands were still gripped together.

  Mind jangling at this insanity, Michael took the risk of speaking, afraid she’d turn into mist. “Step away now, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

  She slid off his lap and did step back, eyes still fixed on him, huge with questions. He had plenty of his own.

  “Be careful,” she said in a soft, sweet voice.

  He grinned with sheer delight. He didn’t understand where the whore had gone and why his bride was here, but she was, speaking to him, concerned for him. He’d held her; he’d kissed her, his true lady in all her perfection.

  Willie Sea chuckled. “If there was any question, I’d say I’d won already. The lad’s strength’s all in his pecker!”

  The room rocked with laughter.

  Michael dragged his eyes away to lock his gaze with his opponent’s, tightening his grip. “We’ll see about that.”

  No more thought of losing. He was fighting for his bride.

  A man stepped forward to count the start, and then they were at it, bracing and straining, moving an inch or two one way, then an inch or two the other.

  Willie Sea shot Michael a narrow-eyed look, clearly surprised to find this a true contest. Michael grinned and forced the other man’s hand a bit lower. But he had to steal a glance, to be sure she was still there.

  Willie Sea surged in the other direction and Michael only just stopped the loss. Sweating, grimacing, he forced the other man’s hand back, inch by inch by inch.

  He heard a soft cry.

  He had to look.

  She was still there, eyes wide. Who had ever looked at him with such deep, tender concern?

  The back of his hand slammed into the table and Willie Sea leapt to his feet, bellowing victory, fists raised. He grabbed his prize for a long, deep kiss.

  Michael hurled the table aside and roared in to rescue her. . . .

  But she was red-haired and plump, and giving back all that she got.

  His bride, his elusive, impossible bride, had gone.

  He staggered back to collapse onto a bench. He was going mad.

  Gledys flinched away from the horrible man.

  And was somewhere else entirely.

  She wasn’t in that hot, stinking tavern, but alone in the chilly dark. Alone in the woods.

  She’d had another dream—a dream while walking!—but what a dream! She’d seen him, touched him, kissed him!

  And what a kiss!

  She revisited it in her mind—the heat and taste of him, the feel of his big, strong body that seemed to have an energy all its own, almost tingling under her hands. His wonderful smell, distinct even amid stinks of ale, new and old, roasting food, sweat. . . .

  She caught her breath.

  She was remembering!

  The details weren’t melting away.

  She returned to them again, afraid they’d fade away, but no. They were there, as clear as her memory of meeting Sister Wenna.

  He’d stopped kissing her and told her to step back. She hadn’t wanted to, but she’d obeyed and she’d seen he was engaged in a strange contest of strength. His opponent had been older and bigger and wearing a tunic that left his huge, hairy arms bare. He looked half animal, and when he’d smiled, showing missing teeth, she’d recognized him as the man her knight had fought in the tournament.

  Her knight’s forearm looked strong, but it was smaller than the other man’s. She’d worried, but she’d reveled in her first clear view of him.

  The drinking place had been poorly lit, but even scant tallow light had caught gold from his wavy hair and thrown up the detail of strong cheekbones and a square jaw. She remembered kissing him, his beautiful face between her hands, his lips hot on hers.

  Surely he was her protector to come to her like that in a visi
on while on her quest.

  And yet, when she’d first seen him he’d been dallying with a wanton, whose plump breasts almost spilled out of a tight bodice. The woman had leaned on his shoulder and nibbled his ear! Then she’d slithered around and onto his lap to kiss and be kissed. He hadn’t been at all reluctant.

  But then it had been she, Sister Gledys of Rosewell, whose hands had cradled his head, whose lips had pressed to his, parted, so they shared breath. How?

  Well, it was a dream. It seemed anything could happen in a dream, even an unimaginable kiss.

  How had she known how to kiss like that? How could she have enjoyed it so much? Enjoyed the heat and taste, and the feel of his silky hair around her fingers, his strong skull beneath her hands. The closeness of their entire bodies.

  Gledys forced her eyes open to try to break the spell. Bad enough to dream such things, but to eagerly return to them, wallow in them! Yet Sister Wenna had implied that this was her destiny, her duty, and now it seemed her knight would be the one.

  Gledys crossed herself, muttering, “Lead me not into temptation, Lord.” But when she added, “Thy will be done,” she knew she meant, “Yes, please!”

  She’d achieve neither destiny nor desire if she died here, however, and she was lost in a dark, dank wood. She hugged herself and shivered, wondering how far she might have walked, and where she might be. The last thing she remembered was following the road into the woods, wishing she had a lantern.

  Through black branches above she could see dark gray sky, but any dim light didn’t reach here below. She explored with her hands, finding a tree trunk. It was the trunk of a very large tree, far greater in girth than her arms could begin to encircle. Probably an oak, and very old. It was possible that such ancient oaks lived in the woods around Rosewell, but she’d never encountered one.

  “Raven? Raven! ” she repeated more loudly, for clearly she had no need to fear anyone would overhear her. There was no one around. Not even, it seemed, the raven itself.

  She began to pray in a direct and rather desperate way, but then other words trickled into her mind. She found herself saying, “Garalarl, guide me.”