The Black Chalice

Two

The coming days brought three surprises, each greater than the last, and only two of them pleasant.

The first came in the form of simple generosity. Random acts of kindness are things to be treasured, as they so often come when most needed.¹ In this instance the kindness was nothing more than a few words, reminiscences about his father, but that didn't diminish the impact it had on young Alymere. There was something immediately comforting and familial about the hour spent in the company of Maeve, the ruddy-cheeked cook, and the scullions. He felt as though he belonged; it was something he hadn't felt for a long time.

Maeve sat him at the big table and fed him chunks of cheese and freshly-baked bread with a thick buttery crust, the remnants of a haunch of venison — really little more than a few bites left on the bone — and a mug of honeyed mead. It wasn't exactly a meal fit for a king, but after more than a week on the road the mead might have been ambrosia and the meat nectar. Grease ran down his fingers and smeared his chin as Alymere worried away at the meat stuck between his teeth. His belly ached long before he had finished feeding his face. He couldn't help himself; he ate like it might be his last meal, because that was how he had always eaten, bolting the food down.

Maeve's hands were never still. She kneaded dough, shaping oat cakes and loaves for the morning. She stoked the oven's fire. She sliced and diced and peeled without looking down at the vegetables she threw into the stew pot. She had the bold air of a seasoned veteran, although her weapons of choice were the cleaver and rolling pin. She was the absolute and uncontested mistress of this place.

And all the while she didn't stop talking.

She maintained a stream of cheerful babble in between shouting instructions at the scullions and scattering them left and right with culinary purpose. The focus of her conversation was reminiscences of his father. This was where the kindness lay. She could simply have cut off a hunk of bread from the loaf and a slab of cheese and been done with it, but instead this busy woman chose to talk about the only thing they had in common. She seemed to know everything about everyone in Camelot, as surely all stories made their way down to the kitchens eventually when hungry bellies brought fighting men below stairs. She had a hundred recollections of Roth, from his first day in the service of the king when he was little older than Alymere was now, to his proudest moment, taking his seat at the Round Table side by side with Sir Kay, Gawain, Bedivere and the others. Her pronunciation of their names was distinctly Gallic. Indeed, everything she said, as she diligently worked away, was touched by her foreign tongue. He found it strangely comforting to know that he was not the only refugee in the castle; that the old woman had not only made it her home but had become a vital part of the place. To hear these stories, and within them, glimpse his father's life through the eyes of a stranger had to be one of the most precious gifts he had ever been given.

Dusting the flour from her hands, Maeve started to tell him how his parents had first met, in that very room, with the help of the brothers Percival, Lamorak and Aglovale playing Cupid, but then, seeing Bors return, she promised to tell the story another day, but only if he promised to tell her a few stories of his parents' life after Camelot. It was a promise he was only too happy to make.

He left with Bors.

The second surprise came in the armoury.

Bors unlocked the heavy oak door and slipped the brace beam, pushing it open, and Alymere followed him inside. The room itself was somewhat smaller than the kitchen, and replaced the scents of cooking with the metallic tang of mail and goose grease. All manner of swords were stowed in racks along one wall, from single-handed broadswords polished to a shine, through hand-and-a-half bastard swords and great two-handed longswords to short one-handed stabbing blades for close combat. Three windows filled the armoury with the dying light. Motes of dust turned lazily in the dwindling shafts of sunlight. One shaft struck a breastplate, transforming it from simple metal into something breath-taking. There were twenty-five such harnesses around the room, but only one captured the sun. Alymere walked across to it and placed his hand over the heart, feeling the sun's heat thrill through him. It was almost as though the empty metal were alive, as though somehow it held the spirit, the essence, of the warrior it protected.

Bors moved to stand beside him. "I do not think Lancelot would take kindly to your greasy hand-print in the middle of his chest, lad. So best not touch. Just between us, those Bretons can be a touchy lot and they're not exactly renowned for their sense of humour. Put it this way, lad, it'd be a crying shame if I was picking bits of you up off the practice field come sunrise because of one of Maeve's greasy roasts."

Alymere recoiled, pulling his hand away as though suddenly scalded by the metal, and stood there staring in horror at the greasy outline of his palm planted in the middle of the breastplate and then down at his treacherous hand.

Bors dropped a rag into his hands and chuckled, but Alymere was too mortified to realise what he was meant to do with it until Bors said, "There's leather strips in the bucket over there. I suggest you make it shine, lad. But clean the grease off your hands first or you'll be at it all night."

By the time he was done with the buffing rag the breastplate was gleaming. He had been so consumed by the task that he'd not noticed Bors searching the sword racks, picking out a single-handed broadsword and working the whetstone along the edge to hone its bite. When he was satisfied with it, he set the sword aside and turned his attention to all manner of shields — kites, bucklers and heaters — stacked up in the racks, again taking his time to gauge the size and weight before making his choice. He discarded the bigger, sturdier shields in favour of a relatively thin wooden heater overlaid with leather. It would withstand a number of solid blows without encumbering Alymere, allowing him freedom of movement on the battlefield. It would most certainly do for the practice field tomorrow. He laid a simple pair of leather gauntlets on the table beside the sword and shield, and finally he chose a helmet, a simple cervelliere skull cap, rather than a bascinet or more elaborate closed or great helm. There was nothing either embellished or decorative about any of the equipment the knight had selected; it was all chosen for its functionality.

Alymere set aside the leather buffing cloth and saw the equipment that had been set aside for him.

"Try this for size," Bors said, tossing the helmet over the table to him. It nestled snugly on Alymere's head, flattening his wayward hair as he secured it in place. Bors helped him pull on the leather gauntlets. He stood back. "Let's have a look at you then, shall we?"

Bors looked him up and down without a word. He didn't need to say anything. Alymere was all too conscious of what he must have looked like in his mismatched armour and too-big mail shirt.

"I'm sure we could find you a shirt that you'd fill out, lad. Something that doesn't make you look quite so much like an orphan playing dress-up."

"No," Alymere said before he could stop himself.

If his refusal surprised the knight, he didn't let it show. Bors merely inclined his head slightly, as though considering a problem, then cast about the room and found a leather belt to cinch the long mail shirt at his waist.

"Better. Now there's just one thing missing. We'll make a knight of you yet, lad."

And with that, Bors gifted him the second surprise. There was a soft knock on the armoury door, and a moment later Katherine, the feisty serving girl they'd met on the stairs, entered the room. She carried a tabard draped over her arm, and on it was a familiar crest: a leaping white stag on a black engrailed slash across a white cloth.

"It's not much, but it seemed appropriate," Bors said, taking the tabard from the woman and offering it to Alymere. Suddenly Alymere knew what the knight had been doing while he ate in Maeve's kitchen. He didn't know what to say. What words could he offer, save thank you? The gesture went beyond simple kindness. In giving him his father's tabard Bors had, in no small way, given him part of his own identity back. "It was your father's." Bors explained needlessly. "Put it on, lad, and let's see what you really look like."

Alymere pulled the tabard on over his head. Bors nodded approvingly, then helped strap the heater onto his left arm and handed him the sword.

"Come here, Katherine, and tell me, what do you think? Have we made a knight of him or does the poor lad still look like some waif we dragged from the fields?"

The maid came to stand beside the knight and took his measure, looking Alymere from head to toe and back to head again. Her smile was genuine when she said, "He looks most noble, sir."

"He looks nothing short of his father's ghost, come to haunt these hallowed halls once more," Bors said. "If I didn't know better I'd think it so. The likeness is uncanny." He made the sign of the cross over his chest, then grinned that infectious grin of his.

To the maid he said, "Thank you, Kate. You can leave us now."

She curtseyed and slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Then the big man turned back to Alymere. "Come on then lad, away to bed. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow."

And that was more true than either man could have known, for tomorrow was where the third surprise would reveal itself.