The Black Chalice

Thirty-Six

He stood at the door of the church, but could not bring himself to cross the threshold. He hadn't noticed it before, but carved into the transom, in the block of wood above the doorway, there was a goblet — a chalice — and the constant abuse of the weather had turned it black.

There was nothing untoward about a church bearing the mark of the grail.

He and his uncle had sought the grail once, as had most of Arthur's court at one time or another; so much had happened since they had ridden out together across marsh and field in the rising fogs to find the Chapel of the Fallen Brother, where the first clue to the whereabouts of the grail was carved in stone. It had begun as a great adventure and ended in bitter frustration and disappointment. But that wasn't what Alymere was remembering. The recollection came to him with unerring clarity and for a moment it was as though memory were layered over reality, both doors before him. There had been a single carving etched into the keystone of the chapel's entrance, a chalice.

Could this humble church be part of the grail quest?

Was that what the carving meant?

There was no mistaking the image — it was the cup that had caught the blood of Christ. What more holy symbol could there be?

But for it to have turned black…

He could not shake the feeling that it was an ill omen.

His mind raced, making leaps of logic that churned his stomach: the Devil's book, the Black Chalice, both, surely were the antithesis of these most holy relics, God's Book and the Holy Grail? It made a sickening kind of sense, and explained why Blodyweth feared the book falling into the wrong hands. If the grail were the ultimate prize of good, then surely the black grail must stand as its counterpart on the scales of balance, the ultimate prize of evil?

Instinctively, Alymere made the sign of the cross over his chest, and then winced as the sudden movement caused the book tucked beneath his shirt to dig into his ribs.

He hammered on the door with his clenched fist and waited.

The words of the crone still haunted him all these hours later.

What did she mean, his life was wrapped in lies?

What, if anything, did these lies have to do with the Devil's cup?

Before he could answer the questions — not that he ever could — the door groaned open and a pinch-faced priest peered out through the gathered shadows. His complexion, sallow skin and tired eyes, set into waxy dark circles beneath his heavy brow, bespoke years of austerity and hardship. But for all of the exhaustion there, there was strength too: the strength of faith, the certainty that he was walking the path his God had lain before him, and that every step was a step taken towards Him. Alymere had no such faith. It had been a long time since he had. He could name the day, all those years ago when he became Alymere the Poor Knight instead of Alymere son of Roth. So, for that unwavering confidence, he envied the priest.

In that moment, before he recognised Alymere, the old man's face betrayed his fear.

Then recognition came and he was no longer facing a ghost.

Reflexively, the priest made the sign of the cross, mimicking the gesture Alymere had made only moments before.

"Do I look so bad?" Alymere said, barely masking the bitterness in his ruined voice. He touched his face self-consciously.

The priest stepped back, the door opening another six inches. The moonlight carved a swathe from neck to waist through the man's vestments. "No, my lord. No. Forgive me. I did not mean offence. For just a moment I could have sworn it was your father standing in your place." He shook his head as though trying to rid himself of the last lingering trace of the ghost in his mind. "The similarity between you is striking to say the least."

"And then you saw my scars and thought what, that hell's fire had burned the poor soul as he clawed his way out of the pit?"

"You do me wrong, my lord. More, you do your father wrong. He was the best of men. There is not a day goes by that I do not mourn his absence from this world. Believe me, it is a lesser place without him. He does not reside with the Devil."

"I am sorry," Alymere said, and found that he meant it. "My mood is foul. Fears press on my mind. You don't deserve the lash of my tongue simply for observing what so many others have. All of my life it has been the same: you look like your father, the apple did not fall far from the tree, the blood ties are strong. There are days when I hate being my father's ghost and days when it makes the living easier, if that makes sense?"

"It does, my lord. Family is the strongest bond of all, forged for us; despite us, oftentimes. You have no need to beg my forgiveness, my lord."

"Thank you, but I suspect you might change your mind once you learn why I have arrived on your doorstep in the dead of night looking for help."

Alymere took a step towards the door, his eyes flicking upwards to look once more at the weathered chalice carved into its wooden frame, then checked himself. He couldn't explain rationally why he didn't want to set foot inside the church, because there was no rational explanation. The priest saw his hesitation and took it as a sign of courtesy.

"Come in, come in," he said, opening the door wider.

Alymere closed his eyes and crossed the threshold. He did not know what he expected — his skin to blister and blacken as his soul burned, his eyes to melt and run down his cheeks, his sins to boil up from inside him and ooze out in the form of corruption and putrescence. Or perhaps the book pressed so close to his skin would ignite when exposed to the air of the sanctuary, scorching through him to the bone in the process?

His skin did not blister, neither did his soul burn.

He opened his eyes, and was three steps inside the church. He had to stifle the urge to laugh. The church was of plain Norman design, a sturdy construction with little in the way of decoration. The one concession to aesthetics was the stained glass window behind the stone altar. In it, Christ was surrounded by every kind of animal the artist could imagine. Each creature was beautifully rendered. During the day every colour of the rainbow must have been scattered across the inside of the church.

It was the first time Alymere had set foot within the place. He had long since ceased praying and had little time for a God who had failed him so consistently, but still the little church was humbling. For the first time in as long as he could remember Alymere felt as though he were in the presence of the divine. Habit, long ingrained, had him genuflect before the altar.

"What can I do for you, my son?" The priest asked, breaking the silence. He had moved silently to stand beside him. "You did not ride all this way without purpose, I am sure."

"A small mercy, father. An act of kindness, and not for me but rather for my uncle. I have come to beg you ride with me, through the night, to the manor. I fear there is little time. We may already be too late."

"Too late?"

"He is dying and would make his peace with God before he goes."

"Oh, sweet Lord," the priest clutched the crucifix at his throat. "How? How could such a thing happen?"

"It is a family curse," Alymere said darkly. His face twisted, on the side still able to betray emotion. "We die young."

The priest shook his head. He looked uneasy; frightened that even in a house of God Alymere would so tempt the fates. "Do not say such things; do not tempt Lucifer's mischievous hand, even in jest, even in this place. The Devil's ears are sharp and stone walls are no protection from his black humour."

If only you knew what I have brought with me into your sanctuary, Alymere thought bleakly, then you would have reason to be afraid. He did not give voice to the thought, but apologised. "Sorry father, but it is difficult sometimes to think of us as anything other than cursed. Perhaps it is a blessing that my ill-fated line will come to an end with me."

The priest was not so easily pacified. "You are maudlin, my son, which is understandable given how this life has treated those you love and hold dear, but look at the people you serve: the farmers, the fishwives, the boys born into a life of scrimmaging and struggling for every mouthful of bread and tell me you are truly cursed, my son. Every day I see true hardships and true heroism side-by-side and thank the Lord for His gifts. And like it or not, to those people, you are one of those gifts."

"There are more ways of suffering than privation, father," Alymere said, and something in his tone struck a chord with the priest, who bowed his head in acquiescence. "If any man should know that, I would have thought it would be you."

"I do not mean to diminish your suffering. Sometimes I forgot how young you are, my lord. I see the knightly garb and the proud jaw and forget the trials you have faced in your short life. My apologies."

"There's no need to apologise. In many ways you are more than right; I have lived a life of privilege, and for most of it have not wanted for anything; not love, not food, nor a roof over my head. No matter my personal hardships, I should thank the stars for my good fortune. All I can say is that it is too easy to be consumed by one's woes. I think too much of the things that I have lost, instead of remembering the things that I have. Despite my best efforts, I am alive, I have my health, my looks," he chuckled a little self-deprecatingly at that, his fingers instinctively moving to touch his ruined cheek, "and in but a few hours the fates will conspire to make me master of the house I was born in, and all that I lost will be mine once more. But, and here is the God's honest truth, priest: I would gladly give up my inheritance if it meant my uncle, my mother, my father — anyone I have ever loved, for that matter — if any one of them were restored to me." He shrugged. "But if wishes were fishes I too could feed five thousand. Debating the relative merits of one sadness over another serves no-one, so rather than grow ever more maudlin, let us ride out if you are willing?"

"Of course, of course. Let me collect a few things and we can leave."

The priest bustled around, snuffing candles and dousing oil burners before beginning to gather the objects of his faith: a small wooden cross from the stone altar, a stoppered vial of blessed water from the font, and his battered Bible from the lectern. He moved with familiarity through the richer darkness once the candles and burners were out, collecting a rough hessian sack. He emptied out the few remaining root vegetables that filled it, and then refilled it with the things he had collected. He slung the sack over his shoulder and stopped as the realisation hit him. "Ah, I have no horse, my lord, only my feet." He looked distraught. "No matter how fast I walk, I fear we won't make it in time; it is days to the manor from here," his voice trailed off helplessly.

"Fear not, father, there is room on my horse for two, and Marchante is more than capable of bearing us both. If we leave now we will be back at the house for dawn."

"Then we must not tarry a minute longer than necessary. With God's speed, let us away."

The priest took a few moments to close up the church, and then, as Alymere untied Marchante's reins from the tree he had tethered him to, mounted up. Alymere swung up, joining the priest in the saddle. Desperately uncomfortable on the horse's back, the priest wrapped his arms around Alymere's stomach and buried his face in the folds of his cloak, clinging to him for grim life as Alymere spurred the great warhorse on.

If the priest felt the Devil's Bible beneath Alymere's shirt, he gave no indication.

Alymere, however, was painfully aware of its presence. He felt the leather binding prickle hotly against his skin as the words churned through his mind. This time the voice was recognisably Blodyweth's.

Do this one thing for me…

Promise me now, make this the one promise you keep.

Or the Devil take your soul…

When they reached the Devil's Tree there was no sign of either the crow or the leather-faced crone. The moon was obscured by low lying cloud, but a sliver of it shone through, turning the road silver.

Alymere spurred Marchante on, willing Sir Lowick to hold on for just a few hours more.