The Black Chalice koa-1

by Steven Savile

  Gwen never left him. She urged him on as he split logs, working his upper body until some semblance of power returned to his frame. His muscles slowly returned as he hefted the axe over and over, slamming it down into the logs.

  When the heat became too much, he would descend to the cellar and spend an hour or more moving casks of wine and mead, and hulking sacks of grain over his shoulder to carry them from one side of the cellar to the other, back and forth, back and forth until his legs refused to carry him.

  He forced his body through more and more gruelling exercises, bringing the casks up from below to load up a broken cart — which leant precariously on its splintered axel — so that he might press greater and greater weights, building the muscle in his shoulders and lower back, and before long he surpassed his previous physique.

  He was born again, body and soul.

  And still his uncle had not returned.

  A curious relationship formed between Gwen and Alymere during his rehabilitation. There was a tenderness there, and pride, friendship even, but it was completely maternal. He welcomed it. Of all the servants in his father's house, she was the only one who could bear to look him in the eye. Not once did they speak of their fevered coupling, so he became more and more certain that it had never happened, although that only left disquiet in his bones.

  It was a month before he realised what it was that so disturbed him: during all of their time together he never once saw her with the child, Alma.

  Thirty

  Alymere read the words again, his index finger running over each of them slowly as he sounded the syllables inside his head: being an account of the entire wisdom of Man as transcribed by Harmon Reclusus.

  Those fifteen words promised so much; the entire wisdom of Man. That he couldn't read more than those fifteen words was a torment beyond reason. He had stared at them for hours, lost in their shapes, imagining he could hear them come alive inside his head without ever knowing what they meant. Why had the monk chosen to record such precious words in a language few could read?

  For protection, of course, to safeguard that wisdom from those unworthy of it, or unready for it, from those who would corrupt it or use it to do harm. Like the sword, wisdom was itself merely a tool, it was how it was wielded that made all the difference.

  He turned the page, breathing in the musty smell of those old sheets as he thumbed through them. The fragrance he thought of as the smell of knowledge filled his senses.

  Alymere studied the shape of what he assumed to be a prayer as it was laid out on the page, tapering to a point. His finger traced the ragged shape of the stanza, resting upon the two words, alone at the bottom of the page, and he realised he could read them: Black Chalice.

  He read them over and over again, but there could be no mistaking what they said. "Black Chalice," he said aloud, barely breathing the words. It was enough to send a thrill through his entire being. He felt it in that intangible place men call the soul. And it was electrifying.

  How could he have missed them?

  The entire body of text pointed towards those two words as though they were the focal point of the stanza itself.

  How could he have been so blind as to not see them?

  Did that mean there were other words in the book he had somehow failed to recognise? Heart racing, he turned page after page, quickly, eyes hungrily scanning the rows of indecipherable text for anything, even a single word, that made sense.

  He found the same two words repeated several times within the book: Black Chalice.

  He could only wonder how, in all of his poring over the book, he had missed them.

  He set the book aside.

  This time when he dreamed it was of a hanged man and a cup. As the man twisted and turned against the bite of the rope a shadowy figure — a woman, he thought — used a silver dagger to open the artery at his ankle and bleed him, catching the slow drip, drip, drip of his death in a black cup. She raised it to her lips and drank the blood of Iscariot, the traitor, and Alymere sat bolt upright in bed, sweating and screaming, the taste of blood on his lips where he had bitten through his cheek.

  He did not see the crow cross the moon.

  Thirty-One

  More than a month had passed with no-one tending to the law of the land, but that did not mean that the disputes of the people under Sir Lowick's protection ceased, merely that they simmered, slowly building to the boil.

  Without the knight there to dispense justice and keep the peace, neighbours grew fractious: conversations which would normally have been civil took on an undercurrent of spite, and arguments came to blows. It was not some dark magic that gripped the people. It was nothing more mysterious than fear. Word of the raids had spread. While they might not know of the fall of Medcaut, they each knew or claimed to know someone who had lost family to the reivers that winter. They were not cowards. They were as brave as the next man. All any of them wanted was to feel safe in their own homes.

  It was Gwen who suggested he should preside over the Assizes.

  Despite his misgivings, she convinced him that the people needed to see that they hadn't been abandoned. In his uncle's absence it was his responsibility to see to their needs. His father, she said, would have expected no less of him. They had been his people not so long ago. Alymere could not argue with her reasoning and so took the seat in the great hall and listened to the endless procession of petitions from frightened people. He could remember watching his father in the same seat, dispensing justice. Firm but fair, his father had always maintained. They came to the knight's seat looking for justice — if they left having discovered fairness then it was a day in which Albion itself triumphed.

  He did not feel comfortable sitting in judgment.

  As he had said not so long ago to Gwen, it was not yet his lot in life to be wise, but when he had said that he had no way of knowing just how few of his foolish days were left to him. In those five long days that the Assizes ran, listening to petition after petition deep into the hours of darkness, he learned something of the nature of people — good people in the main — that he would never have thought true: it didn't matter how rich, how poor, how humble or ugly or beautiful or bitter, how clever or cunning, how hardworking, how venal or base or scheming, how dishonest or desperate, how noble, how proud, people were all inherently the same, and that similarity boiled down to simple self-interest. It turned his stomach. Just once he wanted to hear of a man bringing claim for the betterment of his neighbours, not to redress some perceived loss to himself or his property. Was it so hard to find a man who cared more for the wellbeing of those around him than he did for himself? It was all just so… petty.

  Alymere kept the realisation to himself. It was, he decided, just one of the many things that separated a true man from a common one.

  He shifted in the seat. The muscles of his lower back ached and no amount of fidgeting seemed to lessen the pain.

  He rested his sword across his thighs, as though the blade might lend some gravitas to his decisions.

  "Speak," he said, looking down at the woman and the two men on their knees before him. None of them would look at him as they spoke. It was hard to make out some of their mumbling over the whispers of the onlookers and other petitioners crowded into the house's great hall.

  Justice had become a spectacle. He fingered the hilt of the sword.

  "My lord," said the first of the men, a balding, overweight wretch with the grease of more than one meal marring the front of his shirt. He coughed, and somehow even that little sound succeeded in sounding obsequious. "This man, Isaiah, who I used to call my friend, has wronged me gravely and I come before the court seeking redress. Only what is right, nothing more."

  "Now there's a surprise," Alymere said wearily. "How, pray tell, were you wronged by your friend, and why should it warrant my intervention? What is it? Money? Land? Crops? Did he steal from you or, no, I see a woman between you, perhaps he cuckolded you? Is that the crime for which you would have him punished? Enl
ighten me as to why two grown men need me to sort out their differences."

  "We had a deal, my lord. A bargain struck in good faith. I delivered upon my side, but when it came time for him to honour his word, he broke faith. I am an honest man. A decent man. I do not understand why it should have to come to this, but there is no reasoning with him. I only want what is rightfully mine. As I said, nothing more."

  "All well and good. What was the nature of this bargain of yours? Would either one of you care to explain?"

  The woman looked up then. There was a look of weariness in her eyes that spoke of fear so blunted it had faded into resignation. She was not pretty, but neither was she ugly. Her face possessed an almost masculine strength, with a sharp jawbone, narrow cheeks and aquiline nose, but it was her eyes that fascinated Alymere. They were where the woman lived.

  She did not say a word.

  Beside her, the second man stood. Where his accuser was both corpulent and slovenly, he was a spindle of a man, all slack leathery skin and protruding bone. His clothes were threadbare with wear and patched in several places. Alymere could see a thousand wrinkles in the wattle of his neck and found himself thinking that if it were possible to age a tree by the rings of its trunk it ought likewise be possible to age a man by the wrinkles of his neck. "Master," he said, his voice as thin and reedy as his frame, "Craven speaks true in that he paid a fair price for my daughter's hand, I can't dispute that, but I have offered every coin back and more. He simply refuses to take it."

  "Because I want what's mine, Isaiah. I want the girl."

  "Ah," Alymere said, understanding. "You traded away the hand of your daughter, the price was paid, and now you seek to change the terms of your arrangement? Is that it?"

  "No, my lord, I would simply give my friend back his coin and let my daughter be free of my foolishness. I am an old man, I let fear rule my heart instead of love."

  "What does love have to do with business, Isaiah? I met your price and you were happy enough to take my pigs, were you not?" The fat man interrupted.

  "You sold your daughter for pigs?" Alymere asked, barely able to keep the smirk from his face.

  "Aye, and goats too. A dozen sows, three nannies. Plus coin. More than a fair price," the fat man said.

  "I am sure it is," Alymere agreed. "So why the change of heart?"

  "My daughter came to me and begged me to free her of the deal."

  "She has you wrapped around her finger, you old fool. I will give her a good home. She will want for nothing. And I say again, a deal is a deal."

  "But will she be loved?" The thin man challenged.

  "What has love got to do with anything? You get enough pigs and goats to keep you fed into your dotage and I get a brood mare for fine healthy sons to take over the farm when I'm done," the fat man said, shaking his head in disgust. "That was the bargain and well you know it."

  "Let me think on this," Alymere said, raising his hand to forestall any more outbursts. Both men lowered their heads, but the woman looked at him. He found himself unable to think as he met her gaze. "There is a moral root to the petition as well as a fiscal one. A man should be held to a bargain he has made. If a man can break a pledge, what then is the value of his word? Where is the honour in such a man?"

  "Exactly," the fat man muttered.

  "Silence!" Alymere bellowed, pushing himself up out of his chair. "I have little love for you, fat man. One more word and I shall have your tongue cut out so I don't have to listen to any more of your bleating. Understood?"

  The fat man's bloated face had gone a sickly shade of white. He said nothing.

  "Good." His outburst over, Alymere sank back into his seat. He felt the blood pounding in his temples. He ran a hand across the rough stubble of his beard. "On the other hand, he has offered full recompense, returning the animals and the coin so that neither party is worse off than when the bargain was struck, and surely there are other brood mares out there that can bear you children, because, as you so rightly advocated, love has nothing to do with it, after all. She does not need to be comely, only fertile. When you open your mouth I find that I am of a mind to throw out your petition, Craven, and tell you to go back to your farmstead with your pigs and your goats, but, and this is the only thing that may save your case, when I think of a world in which a man's word is worth naught my blood curdles. Are you familiar with the Oath to which knights swear?" he did not wait for the man to answer. "A true man must never do outrage, nor murder. There has been no murder here, at least. A true man must flee treasons of all kind, making no room for treachery in his heart. Treachery? Could the breaking of faith be considered treacherous? Perhaps. One could certainly argue so.

  "A true man must by no means be cruel but rather give mercy unto him who begs it. If a daughter goes to her father and begs mercy, should he not give it if it is his to give? Again one would think so. But as his chattel a man is free to sell his daughter for pigs should he think it is a good trade. That is the law of the land whether I like it or not, and more pertinently, whether you like it or not.

  "A true man must always give ladies, gentlewomen and widows succour, and never must he force himself upon them. And whilst Craven has bought this woman it is no different to the bartering of station and binding of families that goes on all over Albion. He has offered a good match, promising that the daughter of Isaiah will want for nothing. He has fulfilled his obligations in good faith. So how can she refuse his offer without bringing dishonour upon her father?

  "A true man must never take up arms in wrongful quarrels for love or worldly goods. Both of you, I suspect, should be commended for bringing this fight to me rather than killing each other.

  "And for my part, never will a true man stand by idly and watch such evils perpetrated by others upon the innocent, for a true man stands as last bastion for all that is just. A true man is the last hope of the good and innocent. A true man must hold fast to the Oath above all things. Only then might a true man do honour to Albion and stand as a true knight.

  "The question is, should a commoner be held accountable in the same manner that a knight would? I think it is unfair to assume so, or all men would be knights, would they not? Still, this is no easy decision. Before I make it, I think I should like to hear from the girl, as she is the prize in this dispute."

  She met his gaze full on.

  Already he had become used to people looking away from his scars, but she did not. The challenge in her eyes brought a smile to his ruined lips.

  "I should be most curious to hear a single good reason why you should not be wed, assuming you have a tongue?"

  "Aye, my lord," she said. "I have a tongue,"

  "Excellent. Then let us hear from you on this matter. This court is nothing if not fair, so speak. One good reason is all I ask, and let's have no talk of love. As has been argued already it has no place here."

  "Very well, my lord," she said, rising to her feet. "But if I am to level accusations against the character of Craven, I would do so in private, not with the gawpers looking on." She gestured towards the ranks of onlookers crowded into the chamber. "I would not needlessly destroy a man's good name by turning his life into gossip for his neighbours."

  "I think you've already done that, madam," Alymere said.

  "Then I would not cause undue damage beyond what has been done. I beg your indulgence, my lord. Just a few moments' privacy, then I will heed whatever decision you see fit to make."

  Alymere rose from his chair and stepped down from the dais.

  "Come then, miss."

  He led her behind a sun-faded tapestry that hid an alcove and afforded some little privacy.

  "Speak your piece."

  They were close, uncomfortably so. He could feel her breath against his neck. There was nowhere to hide from the intensity of her eyes. The dark around them made it seem as though they had no whites. He had been wrong on two counts. She was beautiful, he realised, and her fear had not faded into resignation. She was resigned, yes, but that d
id not blunt the fear one iota. It was only then that he recognised the spectre lurking behind them for what it was: death.

  "My lord, it is simply this: I have heard tell that Craven's first wife, six years in the ground, was helped there by her husband's hand."

  Her words had the ring of sincerity to them, but that did not mean for a minute that they were true, only that she believed them. "A serious accusation indeed," Alymere said, thoughtfully. "I can see why you would not want to say this before all and sundry. You told your father this, and obviously it was enough for him to break off the betrothal. I understand now. What father would knowingly send his daughter into the bed of a killer? But that in itself would make this a perfect lie for someone looking to escape her fate without destroying an old man's honour, wouldn't it? After all, who is going to punish a father for protecting his child? So, you are either a very cunning creature or a very desperate one. Tell me, which is it?"

  "I am not a liar, my lord. I believe Craven murdered his first wife, Elspeth, because she was barren."

  "Then do you have any evidence to substantiate such wild accusations?"

  "None, save that when I look into his eyes I see the truth of it."

  He found it difficult to think with her so close. He could smell her hair and found his eyes drifting down to the nape of her neck, where the smallest trace of sweat had begun to gather. He felt his body stir and loathed himself for such human frailty. He wanted to touch her.

  "So you would have me spare you the same fate based upon some flight of fancy? An imagined evil behind the eyes? With evidence I would have no hesitation. Hellfire, I would rain righteous vengeance down upon his head, believe me. The fat man's screams would be heard all the way to France. But without it, my hands are tied. I do not know what else I can say."

  She reached up and placed her palm over his heart. "Then do not say anything. Look into his eyes, my lord. The soul cannot be hidden. You will know the truth. That is all I ask. Look into his eyes and ask him about Elspeth."