by Judith Tarr
He had scented that perfume before, when Musa’s third wife asked to speak to him. She was there, then, watching and listening. That gave this meeting rather more significance than the simple desire of a host to inquire after his guest’s comfort.
A servant brought sherbet and offered wine, but Roland was content with the cold sour-sweetness. He sipped slowly from the cup of blue glass, savoring the taste, and the smoothness of the cup in his hands.
Musa spoke at last, in some bemusement. “You are a . . . surprising man,” he said.
Roland raised his brow. “Because I know of Mithras?”
“Among other things,” said Musa.
“Ah,” said Roland. “I’m young. I’m a Frank. I’m a fighting man. I should not be anything else.”
Musa laughed—startling himself, maybe; which made him laugh the harder. Roland waited him out. At length he said, “My lord, I beg your pardon! I don’t mean to offend. And yet—”
“I am a surprising person,” Roland said.
“Yes,” said Musa, wiping away the tears of laughter. “Yes. Though one would expect—knowing the sword—”
“You know Durandal?”
“I know what it is,” Musa said. “And you, it seems, know what it meant that you slew the bull in the way of sacrifice, as Mithras himself did, and as men here still recall. It makes you more than a Frank or a warrior. It makes you something that the people will remember.”
“As one who committed sacrilege?”
“No,” said Musa. “They’ll remember you as—a champion, I suppose you would call it. One who defends them against their enemies and fights battles on their behalf, as you slew the bull that was slaying men in the villages.”
“Even though I am a Frank?”
“Even so,” Musa said.
Roland set down his empty cup. The servant moved quickly to fill it, but he left it where it was. “Will this help my king in his war?”
Musa sighed. “What you do, what you are, has nothing to do with your king. You slew the bull for these people, not for him.”
“But my king is—”
“You are not your king,” Musa said.
“I am here in his service.”
“People here care little for that.”
“You’re not going to aid him, are you?”
Musa shook his head, though not in reply to Roland’s question. “I see,” he said, “why you were not sent to speak for him.”
“Maybe I should not have been sent to guard his ambassador, either,” Roland said.
“The bull would be alive still,” Musa said, “and still trampling down walls and murdering children.”
“You would have slain him yourself,” said Roland. “Or someone would have. I did nothing that another man could not have done.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” said Musa. He shifted, straightened. “My lord, we owe you a debt of gratitude. My people have asked that I pay it for them.”
“I need no payment,” Roland said, “nor any gratitude.”
“Nevertheless,” said Musa, “you will receive it. They have no gold to give, but they know that you would not take it. The honor of the bull, you have. What they wished to give you—”
He nodded to the servant. The servant bowed and opened the curtain behind Musa.
Two veiled ladies sat there in an alcove with a high grate of window. One was young and slender. The other was shrouded in black, all but the pale gnarled hands and the bird-bright eyes.
Roland knew better than to stare at either of them. It was a great honor, and great trust, that a Muslim of rank allowed a stranger to look on one of his wives. The other, Roland doubted was kin to either of them, but she did not have the manner or bearing of a peasant, either.
“This,” said the younger woman in a low and lovely voice, “is Sibella. Her family is very old, from before the Romans. She holds in her heart the memory of her kin. She asks, in thanks for your sacrifice of the bull, to tell you a story.”
Whatever Roland had expected, it had not been that. He could think of no response; could only sit in silence.
His surprise must have shown on his face. The old woman let fall her veil. Her face was as pale as her hands, wrinkled and folded like a dried apple. Her smile illuminated it. “Child,” she said, “don’t look so startled. Hasn’t anybody told you a story before?”
“Yes, lady,” he said. “But not—”
“Not as payment for a debt.” Her eyes danced on him. For an instant he saw what she must have been in youth: not a beauty, maybe, but spirited, and utterly fearless. “We owe you more than you may know, my lord. Our people have lived in this land for time out of mind. They remember stories from long and long ago, when the gods were young, and the bull did not die in the dance, though the dancers sometimes did.”
“Before Babylon,” said Roland, remembering: Merlin’s face, and his voice, and stories that he had told. “Before Ur of the Chaldees.”
“Yes,” Sibella said. “Though my story does not go back so far. But first, tell me something. Are you the hawk of the gods?”
It was a plain question, simply asked, but Roland felt the weight and the force of it. He could have refused to answer, or answered sidewise. He chose not to do that. He said, “Not he, but his seed.”
She nodded. She was not surprised or appalled. She seemed almost pleased. “Good,” she said, but not to him; her eyes were on the emir’s wife. “This is the one,” she said.
The emir’s wife nodded. “I thought so,” she said.
“Your eyes are as clear as ever,” said Sibella. She turned back to Roland. “Tell me, child. One more thing. Have you heard of the Grail?”
Roland’s teeth clicked together. “The—”
“The Grail,” Sibella said. “The cup of the Lord’s Supper. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes,” said Roland. “Yes, certainly. How—”
“Good,” said Sibella. “Now listen. I will tell this story once. If you understand, that’s well. If not, then not. This gift comes from my people to you; from the old kindred to the champion of the sword, who slew the black bull.”
Roland did not have Durandal with him; not here, in his host’s presence, where no guest should in honor go armed. It lay safe in his chamber, wrapped and hidden. And yet he could have sworn that he heard its song, sweet and high and deadly.
The amulet on his breast, the silver coin that he had worn since Paderborn, was suddenly heavy, and warm as if he had held it in a flame. His heart quickened beneath it.
“Sword and spear,” the old woman said. “Cup and coin.” And as he sat rigid, remembering the dream in which Merlin had spoken those words, she told him the story as she had promised.
“Far away and long ago,” she said, “there was a kingdom in the mountains. Part of it was in the world we know, and part lay in the realm of the gods. Its people could walk on mortal earth, then between step and step, find themselves under another sun, on grass that never dies. The gods would come to visit them, and creatures out of legend lived on their crags and in their deep valleys.
“Not so long ago, but still long lives of men, a man came to them. He bore a great gift and a terrible burden. He had fled a terrible war, the destruction of his people, and the pursuit of implacable enemies. He sought rest and peace, and a place in which his burden might be safe.
“This kingdom in two worlds opened its gates to him and took him in. Its king accepted the task of guarding the thing he brought with him. Nine ladies swore themselves in service to it. Nine enchantresses built a great castle and shrine, and there kept it safe through long years.
“But at last its great enemy came seeking it, and nearly won it. He came close to destroying the king and his son. The nine ladies stood against him, and a hundred knights, and with them the king’s successor, who had come from the world without. At great cost in lives and blood, they cast down the enemy and so preserved their treasure.”
“I know that story,” Roland said. “That i
s the story of the Grail. Nine enchantresses guard and serve it. The kingdom is called Montsalvat. A king rules it. His castle is sometimes called Montsalvat, and sometimes Carbonek. Great magic raised it, and the power of the Grail preserves it. It’s said that it will endure until the end of the world.”
“Unless an enemy rises to destroy it,” Sibella said. “There are prophecies, as there always are round great things of power. One foretold the coming of the enemy and the maiming of the king, and the wise fool who healed him. Another tells of a dying king, and again the enemy, and a war greater than he waged before. A vast army marches on the hidden kingdom, breaks down its walls and its defenses, and besieges the stronghold of the Grail. If that stronghold is broken, the darkness will fall; nor shall it be lifted for a thousand years.”
Roland shivered. He could see it as she spoke: the castle on the crag, the army of shadows, the wide wing of darkness stretching across the sky. He even, for a moment, glimpsed the face of the dark angel: a beauty too potent to endure; a splendor to break the heart.
“How,” he whispered, catching his voice before it failed. “How can it be prevented?”
“By great courage and sacrifice,” she said. “With sword and spear, cup and coin. So the seers foretold.”
Merlin’s words. Was this Merlin’s prophecy? It had a flavor of him. And yet he had never told Roland of it, only of Parsifal and the maimed king.
Sibella was done. Her hands were folded, her bright eyes suddenly weary. She must be very, very old. Her smile was sweet and vague and elderly, not at all like the clarity of a moment before. “That is the story I was given to give you,” she said. “Remember it.”
Roland bowed to her. His mind was full of questions, but he saw no answers in her face. She had given him all she had to give. He accepted dismissal in silence, and went away to ponder tales and prophecies, power and terror. Somehow, his bones knew, the tale would come to him. He would be a part of it.
CHAPTER 20
Roland came to bed late. He had been sitting up with Turpin, sharing a jar of wine and telling old stories. It was the first Turpin had heard of the Grail; he had needed to hear it all, and it was long—most of the jar’s worth.
Roland seldom spoke so many words together, though he could sing a night away; but tonight his heart was too full to endure. Turpin he trusted as he trusted himself—and the man was wise, and learned, though he seemed mere brute muscle.
Roland’s throat was burning when he was done. He soothed it with the last of the wine.
Turpin peered into the jar, found nothing but the lees. He sighed, shrugged. His mind, clearly, was not on the wine, or the lack of it. “That is a striking, a wondrous tale. The cup of the Last Supper? Truly?”
“As true as I sit here,” Roland said.
“God in heaven,” said Turpin. His hand sought the silver cross he wore on his breast. “There are churches that claim to keep such a relic. Byzantium—”
“There is only one cup,” Roland said. “It rests in Carbonek. The light of the world is in it.”
“You know this.”
Roland nodded.
“In your bones. Your magical, not-quite-human bones.”
That was the wine speaking. Roland took no offense. It was true, after all.
“The cup,” Turpin murmured. “The cup. And mortal men can look on it?”
“Men pure of heart and devoted to its service. And women. My master told me so. The Church would hate to know it, he said, but this is not the Church’s domain.”
“If the Church knew—” said the Archbishop of Rheims.
“Only men pure of heart,” Roland said. “None other may find it, still less look on it.”
“Ah,” said Turpin. “You wound me to the heart. Which I doubt is pure enough; priest or no, I’m distressingly human.”
“You’ll do,” said Roland. He stretched, yawned. His head was light and buzzing with wine. His body seemed dim and far away. He was a pair of eyes, a babble of thoughts, a voice speaking soft and slow. “Maybe we should go questing, after this war is done.”
“What, the two of us? Or the whole army?”
“The king might object to that.”
“Unless he went questing with us.” Turpin grinned at the thought. “Imagine. Tearing him away from his court, his palatium, his whole kingdom, taking the band of his Companions, and riding away to find the Lord’s Grail. Just like that. Just—like—that.”
“He could be King of the Grail,” Roland said. “The latest of them must be very old. Older than mortal span. The one from whom he took the kingship—he was born when Rome was young. The Grail nourishes the body and the spirit. A man can live a thousand years, and die in bliss, wrapped in the light of heaven.”
Turpin returned no answer. The wine had caught up with him at last. He was snoring softly, sitting upright in his chair.
Roland smiled a little wryly. It was as well, perhaps, that Turpin had not heard Roland’s foolishness. Charles as Grail-king? Oh, indeed; what glory, what splendor. Maybe he would do it. Maybe that was his destiny. But it was presumptuous of Roland to propose it.
Turpin was by no means awake to reprimand him. He heaved up the heavy body and tipped it into bed, pulling off the shoes, straightening the limbs, pausing for a moment to peer down at the sleeping face. “Not pure enough of heart?” he said. “Then no man is. Whereas I—” He shook his head. “You know what I am. You don’t care—not you, blessed man. But the Grail, it would. It would care very much indeed.”
That was as it was. He drew the draperies about the bed, stretched again till his bones cracked, and went in search of his own bed.
She was in it, as if the day between had never been: fair face, brown-gold hair, glimpse of round white breast above the coverlet. She, unlike Turpin, did not snore. Nor was there any scent of wine about her.
Roland stood in the doorway. He did not know, at all, what his heart was saying as it pounded beneath his breastbone. All that day he had done his best not to think of her. He had said nothing to Turpin, though he had told a greater secret by far, the secret of the Grail. What she had meant in coming to him, he had not questioned. He had taken it, or let it take him, and drunk deep joy of it. But he had not asked or expected to drink it twice.
Maybe he was a fool for that. Olivier would say so, loudly and at length. “What’s love for,” he would demand, “if not to grasp and hold with both hands?”
Not this woman. She was not to be held or confined, or possessed by any man.
She had left him to wake alone, but she had come back. He trod softly into the room and sat in the chair beside the bed. It was an ample chair, as if made for a giant of a Frank. He drew up his knees and clasped them, and rested his chin atop them, and watched her sleep.
His eyes must have slipped shut of their own accord. Her voice spoke in darkness, rippling with laughter. “You look,” she said, “like a bogle on a hearth.”
He blinked at her. She was sitting up, smiling at him, hair tumbling over her shoulders. “What do you know of bogles?” he asked.
“One lived on my hearth,” she said.
“In a castle?”
Her brows rose. “How do you know I didn’t live in a peasant’s hut?”
The answer to that was obvious. He did not trouble to say it.
“I did have a bogle,” she said. “It looked—remarkably like you just now.”
“A distant cousin, perhaps,” Roland said. “With pretensions.”
She stared at him, then laughed, as if caught unawares. “And they say you have no humor,” she said.
“People say a great deal,” said Roland.
“But not you.” She smiled at him, her long eyes narrowing and going almost gold, blissful as a cat in the sun. “You keep your counsel while they babble on. Such a stern face you have, and such a somber mouth—no wonder women vie to kiss it.”
“Women do not—”
“Don’t they? They do battle for a kiss, and boast of a smile.”
“But I have no humor.”
“Well,” she said, “you say so little, and look so haughty. Who’s to know?”
“I should talk more? What would I say?”
“Don’t do that,” she said. She rose, clothed in her hair. He sighed to see her. He had never seen a woman more beautiful.
She drew him to his feet. They were nearly of a height, which was delightfully convenient. He took her face in his hands and kissed her slowly.
When at last he let her go, she melted against him. He lifted her. She was no burden at all after Turpin’s dead weight. Her arms linked about his neck; her head came to rest on his shoulder.
He sank back down into the chair. She nestled in his lap. In a little while she did more than that. Frankish garments had not the ease or lightness of Saracen robes, but she managed to rid him of all that mattered.
She was a wild, wanton creature, and she laughed when she was happy. She laughed rich and free this night, first in that rather astonishingly ample chair, then in the bed, with him freed of the rest of his encumbrances.
When he was happy, as when he was angry or afraid, the bonds of flesh and form slipped free. Too late he caught them. Hawk-wings beat against her breast.
She did not recoil or cry out in horror. She was not even surprised. He lay beneath her, stiff and still.
Her palm curved to fit his cheek. She smiled down at him. “Don’t tell me you do this with every woman,” she said.
His cheek was burning; her palm was cool. It rested lightly against him, but when he tried to turn, to twist away, it was immovable. “I never,” he said, “never—”
“Not once?”
“No!”
“I’m honored,” she said.
“You knew.”
He did not mean to sound so accusing. Her smile widened, then faded. “I sat with you,” she said, “after you won Durandal. Your friend the archbishop was quite unhappy that I did so.”
“I remember,” he said. “I woke and you were there.”
