Chalice of Roses

by Jo Beverley

  The walk into the village was a brisk mile. Fields emptied onto narrow lanes lined with modest and very tidy homes built of dark brick. Everyone who could afford to do so had built a sunroom on the southern exposure, and nearly every garden boasted a bumper crop of autumn flowers—mums and late roses and asters.

  The lanes led to the High Street, an ancient throughway that had been laid by the Romans and later served as a carriage road to London to the north and the sea to the south. It now wore a hodgepodge of time on its shoulders—a pharmacy with crisp medicinal packages in its windows sat next to a pub housed in a building so old that it hunched like a dowager over the street; a proper little supermarket next to the old church that had been turned into a movie theater. Alice stopped to buy a cup of tea in a paper cup from a coffee shop tucked into a corner of an ancient hotel called the Crown and Thorn. It looked like a painting in a child’s book of fairy tales, half-timbered walls and the shape of what must have once been a thatched roof. The window glass was thick and distorted. Inside, people clustered at small tables and lined up at the counter.

  Alice joined the queue, breathing in the heady scent of coffee. So misleading, she always thought, because nothing could ever taste that heavenly. She’d never been much of a coffee drinker, not even with the funguslike proliferation of coffee shops across the States. She preferred tea, strong, sweet and milky, something the English did very, very well. Now, that was heavenly.

  The crowd was the usual mix of commuters on their way to London wearing somber suits and overcoats, students in uniform from the grammar school ordering complicated mixes, and musicians and lecturers from the foundation. There was a gray-haired man, stooped, with funny glasses; a busy woman with sensible shoes. Most intriguing was a cluster of youths who were astonishingly beautiful. One of the girls, in particular, was so lovely that it was impossible not to stare for a moment or two. As willowy and graceful as a dancer, she wore a red cape over which her long, long black hair fell in ribbons. But her face was the lure, long green eyes dominating a face as delicately balanced as a cat’s. She seemed the ringleader of the group—the others, varying degrees of stunning themselves, gave her their attention.

  This morning, as Alice waited her turn, the girl looked over and cast a disdainful glance down Alice’s form. A tiny mean smile turned up her pink lips as she turned her attention back to the group.

  Dismissed.

  And yet, even as Alice puzzled over her response—was she meant to be embarrassed? angry?—the girl looked back once more, blinking in a way that would have felt malevolent in an animal. Alice thought of a mountain lion eyeing its prey, aloof and predatory.

  Then it was her turn and she stepped up to the counter. By the time she ordered her tea and waited for it, the girl was engrossed and did not look back to Alice again.

  Odd, she thought, carrying her tea with her into the street. But it was no concern of hers. Today she would lead a lecture on the ballad that had drawn her here, and afterward she could dig into the vast library of folklore and music that was housed in the castle’s former great hall.

  She was more than a little nervous as she made her way to the classroom she had been assigned. It was a dark and drafty room with enormous windows facing the cold north and a wood populated with birches and oaks with trunks as wide as cars. The green shadows below the shedding branches looked faintly threatening—and Alice had to laugh at herself. That odd fog yesterday had obviously spooked her a bit.

  Never mind. She put down her things on the desk at the front of the room and looked for a light switch, but even when she found it, the lights did little to chase away the gloom. She wished for a shawl.

  She had been awarded a grant to lead six weeks of study grouped around the ballads of roses and the grail and “The Romance of the Rose,” and there were only a dozen students who would join her. The class met once a week, giving each student—and the graduate assistants teaching—plenty of time to pursue their individual courses of study.

  As the students milled in, this one smiling, that one ignoring Alice entirely, her nerves settled. She was no more than a few years older than anyone here, of course—twenty-four to their twenty or twenty-one. It somehow made it easier to relax.

  Until a knot of the coffee-shop group came in, led by the beautiful girl in her red cloak. She sauntered in wearing tall leather boots and low-slung jeans on her slim hips, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth as she met Alice’s eyes. Again there was that unreadable glitter. Challenge? Anger?

  “Ah, what have we here, boys?” she said over her shoulder to her entourage. Her voice was as low and throaty as one would expect from a face and body like that—everything about her was meant to enchant. Ensnare, Alice thought with sudden ferocity. Like a spider. “The little American appears to be our teacher. Isn’t that quaint.”

  “Hello,” Alice said, deliberately looking away from the woman to the youth just behind her. “I’m Alice Magill, and your friend is right: I’m here from America. Anyone else?”

  A lithe, athletic-looking girl with long blond hair raised her hand. “I’m Crystal,” she said, “from Seattle.”

  The woman in her red cloak made a derisive noise. “Not Barbie?” she said.

  “Very funny. Like I’ve never heard that before.”

  “If everyone will get settled, we can introduce ourselves and get started. We have a lot to cover in a short time.”

  They went around the room and told who they were and what they were studying. The red-cloaked woman was last, of course, after her three minions—all lean and long-legged and somehow from some other era—introduced themselves as John, Laithe and Nicholas. “I’m Acacia,” the woman said in her throaty voice. “I’m a singer.”

  “Thank you.” Alice pulled out her notes. “The piece we’re going to study next is a folk song that was born of a lyric poem written during the War of the Roses, ‘The Ballad of William of Hartford,’ which some think might hold a link to the Holy Grail, which most of you know is the cup that Jesus used at the Last Supper, offering his blood to his disciples.”

  “Ew,” someone said.

  Alice lifted a shoulder slightly. “The Grail is said to have great powers. And some indications point to its being carried to this very county.” She paused to flip open a text, aware of an almost subvocal rustling through the room. She glanced up, but aside from one student rifling through a rucksack, everyone seemed to be patiently listening. Even Acacia sat straight in her chair, her elegant hands crossed quietly in front of her. “Has everyone read the poem?”

  “It’s pretty obscure,” a plump girl said. “Even in the library, there wasn’t much on it.”

  “We’ve all read it,” said Laithe, gesturing to include the knot of students clustered around Acacia.

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “No,” he said.

  Disconcerted, Alice said, “Anyone?”

  Crystal raised her hand. Relieved, Alice nodded at her. “Please.”

  “It’s a chivalrous poem about a young man who catches the eye of the fairy queen, but remains immune to her because he is protecting the Guardian of the Grail. The queen curses him and he’s doomed to live in fairyland until a mortal woman frees him.”

  “Right. As with all chivalrous poems, there is a series of tests before he’ll be free. Who can tell us what they are?”

  “She has to fall in love with him of her own free will,” said another girl with a blurry north-country accent. “And she has to find the Grail on her own to bring it to him.”

  A snort from the elegant group. Alice thought of them as the Lords and Ladies. “Only one little problem,” one of them said.

  “Which is?” Alice asked.

  “She has to be the seventh daughter. Not many of those left in the world.” At a scowl from Acacia, the boy ducked his head, but Alice seized the comment.

  “True, there are not many families of that size these days, though I will confess I am the youngest of nine.”
She smiled. “Anyone else?”

  Two others raised their hands. “I’m one of six,” said a rough-looking youth with buckteeth. And a girl with long red hair spoke up with a smoky voice. “I’m the seventh daughter. I’ll free him. He sounds hot.”

  The class laughed.

  “Why do you say that? What makes him appealing?’

  “He protects the woman and the Grail, and he even resists the fairy queen, who is the most beautiful creature in the world.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s appealing to think of honor and fidelity. Men don’t seem to value those things nowadays.”

  “They never did,” said one of the ladies. “Men have ever been as duplicitous as their cocks lead them to be.”

  Again, laughter.

  “There are some who say,” Alice interjected, “that the author was in love with the young man who was spirited away.”

  “How can they know the writer was in love with the guy if they don’t even know for sure who wrote the poem?” Crystal asked.

  “It’s all speculation,” Alice agreed. “The most likely author is Edmund Hightower, who was a young nobleman sent to court in 1465. He was a diarist who wrote a lot about the War of the Roses, and also a young woman by the name of Elizabeth, and it is known that Hightower was devastated by the death of a friend. The poem is said to be a tribute to that friend.”

  “He made up a fantasy to make himself feel better,” said Acacia. “He’s a sop.”

  At least it was something to get the discussion going. “Is fairyland a metaphor for heaven?”

  “We call it Summerland around here,” one of the boys said, roundly rolling his Rs. “ ’Tis better than heaven.”

  “Beautiful. Thank you.” She met his eyes. “Would you like to begin reading for us, please?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Crystal, who studiously ignored him. “Aye,” he said, and straightened. “I’d be glad to.”

  After class, Alice headed for the library, where she made notes until her stomach reminded her she had skipped lunch. Looking up, she saw that a light rain had begun to fall, and she shrugged into her raincoat and headed back to the High Street to the pub, where she ducked into the dark room and ordered a ploughman’s lunch of cheese and pickled onions and bread, and a pot of tea from the bartender, a baldheaded man with a white apron wrapped around his substantial middle. “Sure thing, miss. You want egg?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll bring it right out. There’s a nice spot by the window over there, if you’re looking to study.”

  Alice lifted a hand in acknowledgment and carried her books over to the spot he’d pointed out. Through the leaded window fell pale silvery rain-light, and on the other side was the comfort of the fire, crackling and smelling of resinous pine.

  It wasn’t until she sat down that she noticed the blond woman from class this morning, head over a thick text. Heavy rectangular glasses gave her an intellectual air. As Alice sat down, the woman looked up. “Hi,” she said. “Remember me? Crystal from Seattle.”

  “Of course. Don’t let me disturb you.”

  “I’d welcome the disturbance, honestly, unless there’s work you’re focused on. Would you like to join me? I’m about to have a beer.”

  “I’ve been studying all day.” Alice pointed to the bench seat next to her. “This is a better seat. Join me.”

  Crystal picked up her book. “It’s nice to talk to another American,” she said. “At first, I tried to speak only with the locals, but—well, as much as it seems like things are kind of the same, the culture here is different.”

  “I’ve hardly been here for a week,” Alice said, “but that’s something I’ve noticed.”

  The barkeep, who had brought over Alice’s tea, overheard. “You Americans always want to hug and talk,” he said with a wink. “We’ve done just fine for two thousand years keeping everything to ourselves.”

  Alice chuckled. “I see.”

  “What can I get you, dear?”

  “Ale, as always, please,” Crystal said.

  “Half pint, luv?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, sir. You know I like a pint.”

  He laughed and tapped his hairy fingers on the table, then headed off to fetch the ale.

  “His name is Phillip,” Crystal said, “and he’s one of the nicest people in town.”

  “Where are you staying?” Alice asked. She pulled the stainless-steel pot over to her.

  “Right around the corner, above the pharmacy,” Crystal said. “There are three of us sharing a flat with the tiniest kitchen you ever saw, and one bedroom with twin beds and a foldout couch.”

  “Great tub, though, I bet,” Alice said, laughing. “I have the biggest, most beautiful tub I’ve ever seen in my life!”

  “It’s true. But we have to turn on a little dial to heat the water. It’s totally amazing. I forget half the time and then just have to wash up fast at the sink. There isn’t even a shower.”

  Phillip brought Crystal’s pint. On his way back, he put coins in a jukebox, and quiet Celtic music came into the room. Crystal sipped her golden pint. “How about you? Where are you staying?”

  “I found a flat in the manor house.”

  “I’m sure it’s beautiful,” Crystal said, “but it’s a long way to walk, isn’t it? Do you drive?”

  “No, not yet. I’m sure I’ll give it a try.”

  Phillip delivered the platter of cheeses and onions, and Alice dove in with the grace of a famished dog, inhaling good white cheddar and brown pickles spread on hearty white bread, and the sharpness of pickled onion. “This,” she said between bites, “is fantastic. I was absolutely starved.”

  “There’s a cafeteria at the foundation, you know.”

  “I get wrapped up,” Alice said with a shrug. “Lost in my research, and I sometimes don’t remember to eat until I’m half-starved.”

  Crystal inclined her head. “I can’t say I ever forget to eat, sadly. If I did, I wouldn’t have to run every day.”

  “Shouldn’t be running so much anyway,” the bartender said, wiping a nearby table. “A smart man likes his women with a little meat on them. Americans are all too skinny or way too fat; that’s the truth.”

  “Don’t you need to keep to yourself or something?” Crystal asked.

  He chuckled. “Can’t blame a bloke for chattin’ up a pretty girl.” He picked up a tray of glassware and headed into the back, whistling.

  Crystal watched him. “Don’t you love the accent? I think that’s the whole reason I came.”

  Her immediate starvation sated, Alice sat back and took a sip of tea. “Tell me about Acacia,” she said.

  Crystal’s gaze skittered away. “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever. She’s obviously very bright.”

  “Mmmm. I don’t know very much. She’s never very nice to me. One of her little boyfriends talked to me the first couple of weeks and she hasn’t let any of them near me since. She really needs to be the center of everything.”

  “Does she always dress like that? So dramatically?”

  “It’s sometimes even more so.”

  People began to drift into the pub, taking seats around the bar and a nearby cleared space where a stool and a mike sat. “What kind of music do they play?”

  “Ballads, of course. They’re all studying at the foundation.”

  Alice glanced at the window. Maybe only an hour or so of light left. She wouldn’t have time to stay. “So tell me what brought you to England.”

  “The usual study-abroad thing. I’m an English major, and at least this got me out of Seattle for a while. I’m enjoying the travel. Not so much the studying.” She gave a wicked little grin. “Maybe I’ll save money and go backpacking around, like the Australians.”

  “I’m sure it would be fun.”

  “How about you, Miss Magill? You must be a good student or you wouldn’t be in grad school.”

  “Oh, please call me Alice! I do like to study,” she admitted. �
�I like getting swallowed in the pursuit of some idea, or the romance of a poem. But I’ve been wanting to come to England since I was a very young girl. My grandmother loved English literature, and she used to read poetry to me.”

  The bell over the door rang and a flurry of students came in, all swirling hair and colorful coats and long limbs. Two of the boys had been in the coffee shop this morning, and the three girls she had seen here and there. All of them were lovely in a way that was startling and strange. They had red hair and black, sable and gold and wheat, all of it glossy and long. Not a single one had buckteeth or a bad complexion or bitten fingernails.

  It was the same group from this morning. “If they’re here,” Alice said, “Acacia can’t be far behind.”

  “No doubt.”

  Tugging out a sheaf of bills, she waved them toward Phillip. “Are they all boarding school kids or something? They’re awfully well tended.”

  “I get the impression that they’ve known one another since they were toddlers, and they do seem to have a lot of money. Very nice cars and clothes and that kind of thing.”

  “The children of dukes and marquesses and princes, no doubt.”

  Crystal scowled, particularly at one youth with black hair spilling over his shoulders and wearing a green coat embroidered in a Finnish style around the cuffs and collar. He glanced at Crystal, caught her scowl and his cheeks went red. He turned, as if to come over, but the door opened once more and Acacia swirled in, seemingly accompanied by a gust of green-scented wind. She wore a gauzy blouse that displayed her graceful collarbones and the upper swell of obviously perfect breasts, and her tiny waist was cinched with a thick belt, as if from the Middle Ages.

  Behind her came two women and three men, the lot of them laughing, except one.

  His head was bent, so Alice could not quite see his face, but her heart squeezed painfully. In the angle of his neck, the fall of his hair and a certain stillness in his movements, he made her think of the man in her dream.

  Could it be? She stared, willing him to raise his head. Two of the others passed in front and the man stepped back, shrugging out of a leather jacket he hung on a hook near the door; then he moved forward into the light.