Chalice of Roses

by Jo Beverley

  A maid and footman entered soon after with two trays filled with thick scones, ham and steaming pots of tea. We were ravenous and went at the meal like starving wolves, and the gentleman took to the food with a hearty appetite as well.

  Arabella had stopped shivering by the time we were finished, and except for the ache in my arm, I felt quite well. The gentleman sat back in his armchair, his hands folded over his stomach, and gazed at us curiously.

  “Well,” he said. “What’s your story, then?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Arabella spoke first. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred and Rowena Evanhaugh, on our way to . . . to visit relatives in Edinburgh. The storm caught us out and our carriage turned over when lightning struck close and frightened our horses.” I saw she meant to go on as we had before, giving the false names we had used all along the Great North Road.

  The gentleman said nothing, but looked from one to the other of us, his gaze assessing us keenly. I saw his eyes go to Arabella’s left hand, where she wore the signet ring I had given her upon our marriage. I could not help feeling insult at his assumption, but acknowledged that he had no doubt heard of more than a few couples who had come up from England to be clandestinely married in Scotland. “I see,” he said.

  “And your name, sir?” I said.

  He hesitated, then said, “Scott. You are at Ashiestiel.”

  I recalled the name of the man’s son. “Are you . . . Mr. Walter Scott, sir? The author of ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel’?”

  The man smiled and inclined his head.

  Arabella sat up straight in her chair. “Oh, my. Oh, my. I have read it any number of times!” She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. “ ‘The feast was over in Branksome tower, / And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower; / Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell /—’ ”

  “‘Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell—/ Jesu Maria, shield us well! / No living wight, save the Ladye alone, / Had dared to cross the threshold stone,’ ” I finished. I, too, had read the poem. I looked at Arabella and smiled at her look of surprise, and she grinned at me. It was something we had in common.

  The clearing of a throat caught my attention, and I looked at Mr. Scott, whose expression was vastly amused. “Newly wed, I see,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Arabella said. “How did you know?”

  “I have been married myself for more than a few years; I speak from experience.”

  “But Ashiestiel . . .” I barely kept despair at bay. I had thought to go only a little past Melrose, then north through Galashiels and Stow to Bonnyrigg, and finally to the town of Roslin. I must have heard “Galashiels” in the last hostler’s thick Scottish accent instead of “Ashiestiel.” No doubt he had assumed I wished to visit the famous poet, instead of heading toward Edinburgh. “We were to head north from Melrose, not west.”

  Mr. Scott’s brows rose. “If you wish, you may give me your relatives’ direction, and I shall send a messenger to Edinburgh to tell them your arrival will be delayed.” He glanced at Arabella. “You and your lady have been sadly drenched and no doubt shaken by your accident. I doubt you would wish to travel so soon.”

  “But we must!” Arabella cried. “It is urgent. We are on a danger—an important errand.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “If it is indeed dangerous—excuse me, important—perhaps I should hear the whole of it. I am, after all, the local sheriff.”

  I could not feel comfortable about telling a complete stranger of our mission, but Arabella jerked her head a little, clearly indicating that she wished to speak to me privately. I rose and bowed to Mr. Scott. “If you will excuse me, I must confer with my wife, as it concerns her the most.”

  He rose and gestured to the chair. “Sit, sit,” he said. “I am past due to see my children into bed. Speak with Mrs. . . . Evanhaugh while I am gone.” With a twinkle in his eyes that told me he did not believe we had given him our true names, either, he bowed and left the library.

  “We should tell him all of it,” Arabella said, as soon as the door was shut behind Mr. Scott. “He is the author of ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ after all, and a sheriff.”

  I did not see what being a poet had to do with how a man might be confided in. Lord Byron, after all, is a poet, but I would not trust the man so far as I could throw him. But that we might confide in Mr. Scott as a sheriff had merit, and in truth, we had little other choice if we were to ask him for aid. “I wonder if he will believe us.” If Arabella had difficulty at first believing she was the Grail Guardian, how much more would a stranger?

  “He will,” Arabella said firmly, which somehow made me think she did not think so at all. “He is a poet, after all, and are not poets used to thinking of the fantastical?”

  The door opened again, and both of us gazed at each other for a long moment before nodding in agreement.

  We told him our true names, but it was not easy to tell Mr. Scott of our mission, and we did not tell him all of it. He said little as we talked, only asked a few questions for clarification, and then he asked for evidence.

  “The Grail and the spear, you mean?” Arabella asked.

  He nodded. “After all, it’s quite a long tale you’re telling me—Bonaparte, spies, holy relics, a Grail Council.” He smiled slightly, and the twinkle appeared again in his eyes.

  “You might not believe us when you see them. The Grail looked like only a tin cup to me when I first saw it myself.” She went to the bandbox and the pillowcase she had dropped by the fireplace and carefully pulled the items out, laying them near the fire.

  He rose from his chair and went to the relics, peering at them carefully. “It does indeed look like a tin cup,” he said. “With holes.” He lifted it up before either Arabella or I could stop him. “However, it is much heavier than a tin cup full of holes should be.”

  I could not help myself—I took the Grail from his hands, for I felt uneasy seeing it in anyone else’s but Arabella’s. As I returned it to her, my hands held hers and she gazed at me, smiling. For one moment, I wanted to kiss her.

  I heard a slight intake of breath.

  “Good heavens.” I looked at Mr. Scott, and saw he had taken a step back. “Angels unawares, indeed.” He rubbed his eyes and stared at us, then abruptly sat in his chair again. “It’s still there.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “You . . . you glow. The both of you.”

  Arabella looked at me. “I wondered if other people might be able to see it,” she said, and blushed. I knew what she was remembering, and I feared the glow probably brightened even more.

  “Well.” Mr. Scott gazed at us, his eyes wide. “Well. I do not know what to say.”

  Arabella went to him and put her hand on his arm. “Say you will help us, sir.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are going to Rosslyn Chapel. The Sinclairs who built it were more likely to betray Templars and whatever treasure they might have than save them, but who knows what a man might do if he is persuaded to repent his wrongdoing. I have doubts, such doubts.” He gazed at us again and shook his head. “But then, you glow, and my boy did think you were angels, and he has never said such a thing before.”

  He stood up. “Go rest. I will have provisions, a coach, and my own coachman ready for you in the morning, although it sits ill with me that you cannot stay for a while.” He smiled at us. “Promise me you will call upon me again on your way back from Rosslyn and tell me the whole of your adventures.” He nodded at me. “I can promise you good fishing in our streams, and my dear Charlotte will welcome another female to chat with.”

  Much relieved, we did as Mr. Scott asked, and retired to our room. It was not long before Arabella joined me in bed, carefully closing the curtains around us as she did. She glanced at me, and I could see her still, for the light between us grew brighter, as bright as the Grail and the spear we had secured on the bed with us for safe-keeping. I smiled, for I knew what she was thinking. It was more than an hou
r before either of us fell asleep at last.

  —W. Marstone

  April 21, 1806

  I can scarce believe we have been sitting in a famous poet’s coach, with Mr. Scott’s coachman Mathieson attending us, a large basket of food for our journey, and hot bricks for our feet. I think it was a relief to Will not to drive, for though he does it with skill and precision, he looks ill, and indeed has not looked well since the accident.

  As a result, I shall forgive Mr. Scott for giving me a nasty shock after we departed, thus:

  We had driven but a few miles from Ashiestiel, and I admit I was still amazed that we had actually met Mr. Scott in person, and was giving voice to my amazement when I noticed that Will was unusually silent upon the matter. I looked at him and noticed he had an irritated look on his face.

  “What is it, Will?”

  “This.” He fished in a pocket of his coat. “It’s a letter from Mr. Scott.”

  “How completely amiable of him,” I said.

  “Hmm.”

  I opened the paper and read:

  My Dear Mr. and Mrs. “Evanhaugh,”

  I hope you will not think this letter an imposition, and I hope you will trust in my discretion. I have given much thought to your situation. It has been a few years since I have been on the council, but I am still conversant with its ways and its missions, and your tale has given me much thought. Though the council generally is right and just in its ways, let us say their interpretation of certain signs and symbols may not be . . . as precise as it could be.

  Both of you say you have no affinity for the items you are bound to. Yet you have the signature characteristics that designate that binding. It is not a coincidence my boy Walt thought you were angels; children are more apt to see without prejudice than adults. Nor were my own perceptions wrong. Both of you seem to think you have failed in your roles, and that all you have left is to return said items to a safe and protected place. But the signs are that you are still as the council has designated. In a way.

  I abhor being so abstruse, but I am convinced you understand my meaning. Consider other ways you might correctly be designated. Your work is not done, not now, not after you deliver the items.

  I remain, your friend,

  Walter Scott, Esq.

  P.S. A word to the wise: True love’s the gift which God has given to man alone beneath the heaven.

  I glanced at Will, glad that we were passing a grove of trees whose shadows hid my blushes. Love. I had not allowed myself to think of the word. I thought of how, as the Grail Knight, he was committed to put himself in the way of danger . . . and of the possible outcome of that.

  “Well,” I said. “Mr. Walter Scott, the famous poet—and sheriff—a part of the Grail Council. Did you know?”

  “No. But they’re everywhere, not that they reveal themselves when you need them most,” Will said bitterly. “I should have thought there would be one, or an affiliate, posted near the Scottish border.”

  “Yet, Mr. Scott—a Grail Councilman,” I said.

  “Giving us a more obscure letter than a poet has the right to compose,” he continued. “Why does he not simply say what he means?”

  “I feel betrayed.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  We brooded companionably together for a while.

  “I thought we might be done with it after we bring the Grail and the spear to a safe place,” I said.

  “I, too.”

  “But at least he will probably alert the other council members, and they will perhaps come to our aid.”

  His lip curled for a moment. “Yes. Perhaps. Unless the council decides it would be better for us to go through our mission alone, for some tiresome let’s-toughen-the-recruits-it’ll-be-good-for-them reason. I would not put it past them, frankly. They delight in putting people through the gauntlet.” His lip curled again. “ ‘Putting.’ Ha. ‘Driving one roughshod through, and kicking one’s arse—one’s backside once they’re done’ is more like it.” He sighed. “Oh, do not mistake me; I am fully committed to my duty. But it is not as if they do anything but hint, you know, and it’s damnably annoying.”

  I squeezed Will’s hand. “Indeed, and it is my opinion that regardless of Mr. Scott’s letter or anything the council might say, we do not have to agree to any more tasks they might think to give us in the future.”

  Will’s expression brightened, and he gave me a kiss. “Sensible wife,” he said. “Very true.” He kissed me again, which lingered in a lovely way and then deepened as he moved his hand to my breast, and then I had to shutter the coach windows, for the early-morning sky was dim with clouds, and it would not do for passersby to see a coach glowing its way through the hills.

  Our journey to the next inn seemed short this time, and I thought of the few miles we had yet to travel before we reached our destination. One more day, I thought. One more day, and we will be done, and Will and I may return home. A part of me regretted that our adventure would be over, and that we would return to our ordinary lives.

  But I wished it for Will. As we entered the inn, I became anxious, for he seemed pale and wan, although when I removed my glove and touched his forehead, he was not warm. He smiled at me and took my hand. “I’m not ill, Arabella. I only hurt my wretched arm again during the accident, and I’m concerned we might encounter those villains who abducted you.”

  I glanced at the inn’s customers, who seemed more sleepy than curious. I did not see any sign of my abductors, but I still did not feel comfortable. I lowered my voice. “Perhaps we should not have been so ... active as we have been. Perhaps I should have let you sleep more.”

  Will grinned at me. “One would think so, but I seem to gain strength each morning we are, ah, active.”

  I shook my head, blushing. “Or perhaps we should have stayed another day at Mr. Scott’s house,” I said. “Surely it would have made little difference; we must have shaken Waldo and Beefhead from our tracks by now.”

  He ordered a meal to be brought up to us, and the innkeeper called out to a chambermaid to lead us up the stairs. Will was silent until we entered our room, a small but comfortable place with a lofty bed, and our supper was brought to us.

  “We could not risk it,” he said at last. “We still cannot.”

  I knew he was right. When we were finished with our supper and in the bed, I held him close, and when I awoke in the morning, I found I had not moved, and we were as close, skin-to-skin, as a man and woman might ever be. I wish, now, that I knew whether Mr. Scott was right about true love. The word had not crossed my lips, nor had it Will’s, and I wonder if I should risk it; we have known each other so short a time, and all reason tells me I know very little about him. But at least I will write it here before we leave this morning:

  I love William Marstone.

  —Arabella

  Chapter 6

  AMOR MORTEM VINCIT.

  April 22, 1806

  It was still dark when we arose in the morning. I was pulling on my trousers when Arabella took the Grail from its bandbox and the spear from the pillow in which we kept them for safekeep ing. Her gasp made me turn, and I had to shield my eyes at first against the brilliance. Though I had always seen the Grail as a relic of precious gold and amazing glory, it had clearly changed in appearance for Arabella each day since our marriage, and now . . . it changed for me as well. A relief work of roses and thorns had appeared along the edge, which I had never seen before, and it was so full of light within that it seemed brimming with life itself.

  “Do you see them, Arabella?” I asked. “The roses along the edge of it? I’ve never seen that before.”

  She held it up and peered at it. “I . . . no. But it’s beautiful now, without any holes, and it’s golden.”

  “There,” I said. “Now you see it as I do. You are the Grail Guardian.”

  Arabella smiled ruefully. “Perhaps. I don’t see any roses on it. But . . .” She frowned for a moment, then sniffed the air. “It smells of roses.”
r />   She turned to the spear, and as she held it in her hand, a low rumbling filled the air. Light sparked from it and then subsided to a steady glow, as if it were the source of lightning, and as if it were lit from within. I noticed she shielded her eyes, as if against the sun. It was not that bright to me.

  It depressed my spirits. As the Grail Knight, I should have seen the spear in glorious lights, and Arabella, the Grail. Nothing had happened as it should. I took a deep breath and shrugged. Very well, then. Mr. Scott’s letter or no, we would deposit these “items” we were supposedly bound to, and go about our lives as an ordinary husband and wife, and truth to tell, I was glad of it. I gazed at Arabella; she smiled at me as she put the spear back into the pillowcase, and though I had failed at being the Knight, I knew I would not fail at being her husband, for I love her.

  It was a great relief to realize it then. I did not know how she would take it if I were to say it; our marriage was too hasty, my courting of her abrupt, even rude. I shall make up for it once our mission is done.

  The final stage of our journey to Rosslyn Chapel seemed too short, and our conversation during it stilted and awkward, as it had not been before. We became silent after a while, and I took comfort from Arabella’s hand in mine.

  The sun had barely peeked past the horizon when we arrived. My wound pained me more than I had revealed to Arabella; this would be over soon, I thought, and I would be able to rest and heal. Perhaps we would receive a little reward for our efforts once it was done. Perhaps by placing the Grail in a place of power and light, I would be fully healed.

  I nodded to Mathiason when we left the coach, and then noticed the coachman frowning as he looked at the horses. The animals were restless; something had disturbed them, and I did not think it was the power of the Grail or the spear. I looked about me, but it was difficult to see beyond the shadows in the dim dawn light. I had to stay alert and watch; the horses’ uneasiness said “stranger” to me, and they did not mean me, for I had spoken to them and made myself familiar to them, urging them to their best speed upon our journey.